Hugonin

Janitor.ai bots:

Robin Buckley | traumatized Robin AU

Robin Buckley | Soulmate AU

Eddie Munson | Stranger things

Eddie Munson | Steddie

Boris Pavlikovsky | Goldfinch | From strangers to lovers

Boris Pavlikovsky | Goldfinch | After the fight with his father

Mike Wheeler | Byler

Steve Harrington | Platonic Stobin

Gator Tillman | Fargo | Blind Gator

Fandoms: Stranger Things, Goldfinch, Hannibal, Beetlejuice, Heathers, Arcane, Shameless, Alice in Borderland, Dead Poets Society, Fargo, Anne with an e, and many, many others...

Music: Glass Animals, Maya Hawke, Djo, IAMX, Chappell Roan, Girl in red, Arctic Monkeys, Paramore, Panic! At the disco, Des Rocs, Get Scared, Grad!ent, Eminem, Lana Del Rey, Mother Mother, Pale Seas, The Neighbourhood, I don't know how but they found me, Call me Karizma, Slaves

It’s getting close to one o’clock in the morning, but you can't sleep.

This is your first night after your moving with Gator, and although it's not the first time you've spent the night at his place, you're still a little anxious.

Now you two will be living together.

This isn't staying over for the weekend, or coming over for one evening to go to work the next day and then return to your own place. This is serious – a new order of things with the potential to stay this way forever.

You lie there staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the fridge. Gator lies beside you, breathing rhythmically. Over all the nights you've spent with him, you've gotten used to the fact that he doesn't cuddle with you for too long after sex, as if he has a daily limit on tenderness, and he doesn't say overly sweet compliments, finding them too sugary.

But he is a really good boyfriend!

Gator gives you as much time as you need, brings you a glass of water, wipes you down afterward while kissing your shoulder, and put on you his t-shirt, even though he doesn't understand why when you have plenty of your own. Then he immediately falls asleep from the serotonin and oxytocin rush.

He also always offers to drive you, even if it's a stone's throw from home. Gator gives you his card to use at the store when you buy food or things for the house. And he does the chores you assign him without argument.

Yes, maybe he can be difficult and rough, but love and care work their magic.

And yet sometimes a terrible thought creeps into your mind that you're not the right match for each other, but you quickly chase it away.

You get up, pulling the blanket over Gator because he was tossing and turning in his sleep, and head to the kitchen. You stand barefoot on the floor, the tile pleasantly cool against your feet. You stare out the dark window, arms wrapped around your shoulders. Somewhere out there, beyond the glass, the city lives its life, and you're here, in his kitchen, trying to figure out how to fit into his world, to show him he deserves the best.

You look for something to snack on. You didn't go to the store today, so most of the shelves are empty, as if he denies himself the pleasure of eating something tasty. It's his habit – living on the bare minimum, not spending on himself much, not allowing himself extras. As if he doesn't believe he deserves more.

You manage to find a single Snickers in the bottom drawer. You eat about half and leave the rest on the table, wrapped back up. Gator likes them too: he'll eat it in the morning or on his way to work.

This habit of yours runs deep – you always share – because you have a brother and a sister. You were always the one who split the chocolate bar into three pieces, gave away the last two cookies to them even if you only ate the crumbs. It's in your blood, part of who you are – to care, to give, to leave something for someone.

In this empty kitchen you do the same thing, thinking that if you stop leaving things for others, you'll stop being yourself.

Gator, unlike you, is used to being alone, relying only on himself. Maybe that's why he put that Snickers in the bottom drawer, like a secret joy.

You pour yourself a glass of warm water to wash away the caramel residue stuck to your teeth and return to the bedroom.

In the morning, you try to be quiet not to wake Gator, who's tired after a whole day of patrolling. And although he sleeps very soundly, you decide not to clatter dishes and to eat on your way to work, grabbing coffee and a muffin from a café.

Gator wakes up closer to noon. He lies there for a while, face buried in the pillow to hide from the sun. He checks his phone and, seeing no messages from you, gets up and goes to the kitchen. He opens the fridge to grab a couple of eggs for an omelet. He notices something on the table. A Snickers. Bitten off.

Gator smirks and pulls out his phone from the pocket.

It's your lunch break when you suddenly get a message: a photo of the Snickers.

Gator: What's this?

You: Good morning, sweetheart 💋

Gator: Don't dodge the question. Did we get a mouse in our kitchen?

You: It's for you 💞

Gator: I see. Why is it half-eaten?

You: I got hungry at night, but thought of you

Gator: So I'm supposed to eat your drool-covered leftovers.

You: I'm SHARING, by the way

Gator: That was my emergency stash! For urgent situations.

You: I was urgently hungry... Have you noticed I left you the bigger half?

Gator: Of course.

You: Bet you already ate it?

Gator: Did you get more of the caramel?

You: What?

Gator: Yeah, exactly. I checked. Just nuts.

You: GATOR

Gator: I'm the sheriff, and a sheriff notices when something's off.

You: You're not a sheriff, you're a grump who sleeps until noon and then complains about chocolate 🙄

Gator: ...

You: Why so quiet?

Gator: You're impossible.

You: Come on, you love me

Gator: Go to work.

You: I love you too!!

Gator: Yup.

Gator: ❤️.

You: Otherwise I would've left you an empty wrapper!

Gator: I'm turning off my phone now.

Gator jokes to hide the fact that you really caught him off guard.

Why do you do this?

To be honest, he's wondered about it since the very beginning of your relationship. Gator knew that society usually expects some grand gestures meant for girls, but no one told him he'd be cared for in return! He'd long forgotten the word "care", and you seemed to be made entirely of it.

Gator remembers one time, before you started dating, you called him after his shift and, hearing his hoarse voice, came over. You cooked soup for him, changed the damp cloth on his forehead when it dried out, because he had a fever. You didn't sleep all night, afraid the temperature would get too high and you'd need to call an ambulance, so you took his temperature every few hours and held his head while you gave him water.

He acted like a spoiled child. Gator knows his character isn't easy, and when he's sick, he gets twice as bad. But you didn't say anything to him. You hugged him when he felt better, and he'd swear he heard you quietly singing him a lullaby.

By morning, the chills were gone, but you still stayed with him all day, even took a day off. Later, Gator told you that his father would have sent him to work if he'd known he had a runny nose – even as a child, Roy made him go to school, giving him only a spoonful of badger fat to "make a man out of him".

After that, you hugged Gator for a few more minutes, and he didn't understand why.

He wishes his reaction could have been different, but for now, it's just one question.

Why do you do all this?

Roy unexpectedly called Gator to the station, and you stayed home. To distract yourself and not mope on your day off, you decided to go shopping. Gator doesn't really like shopping anyway, unless it's a lingerie store, where he spends more time touching you behind the dressing room curtain, pretending to adjust your bra straps or panty elastic, than actually giving advice.

You've already bought yourself a couple of new things when you notice a sweater in the display window. Dark blue, with a fine gray mélange, not tight but not oversized either. You walk into the store and, without overthinking it, ask the sales assistant for the right size and buy it. You leave the mall more than happy.

You're busy preparing dinner when you hear Gator's car pull up to the house. You move the pan to a cold burner so the food won't burn and go to greet him.

"Hi." You're beaming and reaching for him.

"Hey, baby." Gator hugs you tightly. " I could eat a horse."

"Dinner's almost ready. But first... Something." You announce.

"Something?" Gator murmurs into your neck. "I'm a little sweaty, but–"

"No, something else!" You lightly push his shoulder. "Come on." You walk into the bedroom, leading him by the hand.

"Alright, alright." He's too tired to resist. Gator watches as you take one of the bags near the wardrobe. You silently hand him the bag, smiling. Gator pulls out the contents and examines it: a blue sweater, not your style, too big for you, which means...

"You bought me a sweater?" He asks, bewildered. Gator runs through all the possible important dates he might have forgotten: today isn't his birthday, New Year's is six months away, and it's not an anniversary. Although maybe you decided to celebrate the months you've been together? Did he forget?

Gator clutches the sweater, feeling the softness of the expensive wool.

It would be a wonderful gift, if he had something to give you in return.

"Do you like it?" You ask, biting your lip.

"Just... unexpected." Gator says through his teeth and can hear how forced it sounds. "Did I forget something?"

"What?"

"Is it some anniversary today?" Gator still doesn't understand what's going on.

"No, nothing." You answer, now equally confused.

"So you just bought this for me, just because?" He finally asks directly.

"Well, yeah... I guess." You seem a little deflated when you see him frowning. "I just thought we haven't bought you anything in a while. You wear the same pants for work and going out, and you only have a couple of sweaters that are either gray or black."

"So you're saying I dress badly?" Gator takes the words defensively, even if your tone isn't harsh, he reads reproach where there is none.

"No, of course not! I just..." You search for an excuse, but there isn't any, because this sweater is a gift, not a trick. Gator isn't used to being given something just because.

As if now he has to wait for the moment when you demand something in return.

As if he's forever in debt and can never fix it.

"Are you my mom or something?" Gator chuckles, and suddenly realizes what he's done. He's put up his defenses again, forgetting he's with you, meaning he doesn't need to hide. But it's still not easy for him. Gator avoids meeting your eyes, afraid of seeing hurt there. "I didn't mean it like that. The last time someone bought me clothes was when I was a kid for school or winter when I needed them. This is... weird for me."

Gator mentally wants to beat himself up, because he's sure he made things worse.

"It's fine. I should have asked." You reply and toss the sweater back into the bag.

"I didn't mean to upset you, hey." Gator wants to reach for you, but you turn away too quickly.

"No offense. You can return it. The receipt's inside." You shake your head and put the bag back in its place. "Let's go eat." You head down to the kitchen, and Gator stops you and kisses your temple, but it all feels somehow hollow.

The rest of the evening passes in silence.

A week goes by, and neither of you brings up the ill-fated sweater again. You don't know what Gator did with it, probably returned it to the store. You felt a little sad that Gator has such a hard time accepting your care, but you couldn't blame him. You grew up in a family where everyone always thought of each other. You were the eldest daughter, so you had much more responsibility than your younger siblings. You were used to making sure everyone has enough and no one is left out.

But there was something else to it too. A desire for separation and autonomy. You wanted your own space that you wouldn't have to share with anyone. Even though you love your little sister, you often lacked privacy, and the role of "third parent" was quite draining. You were used to waking up before everyone else to make breakfast for the younger ones while your parents got ready for work. You checked if they'd done their homework, packed their backpacks, remembered their gym clothes. You knew who had a test that day and who had after-school activities.

You love them. Unconditionally. But sometimes, in the evenings, you just lied on your bed staring at the ceiling, feeling a hollowness growing inside.

You didn't know how to fill it, because all your time belonged to others, and from age 13 to 18, maybe even longer, you had to think not just about yourself.

You couldn't blame your parents, because you never lacked for anything. They worked hard for your sake. There was always food in the fridge, you could buy clothes whenever you wanted, and you always had pocket money. They also paid for your college education, and when you found a job after graduation, you immediately moved into your own rental apartment.

Then you met Gator, and you thought your silly caretaking instinct had died, that you'd found someone you didn't need to look after. He's an adult, self-sufficient, he doesn't need a babysitter. It was a relief. You could just be with him, not "take care" of him.

He respected your boundaries and set his own. Each of you had your own wardrobe and nightstand. You no longer had to worry that someone would take your things without asking, that you wouldn't find them in their usual place, or that something would get broken.

But the habit proved stronger, and now you find yourself thinking you're ruining everything again.

Evening. You're driving home, the wind blowing through your hair because you opened the window to escape the stuffy cabin. All you can think about is a can of Coke from the fridge. You turn at the last corner and pull up to the house. You open the door and a wave of cool air hits you – the AC is on.

Gator's been home all day, and you asked him to clean up a bit and make something for dinner, which is within his capabilities, meaning boiling pasta and roasting meat, because he knows how to do that: turn on the oven and wait for the timer to go off.

"Darling, I'm home!" You call out as you step into the living room. "Smells good."

"That's all me." Gator says proudly, lounging lazily on the couch.

"Just the perfect housewife." You joke and kiss him as you pass by, heading to the kitchen.

You open the fridge, but the side door is empty except for a carton of milk. You distinctly remember leaving two cans of Coke. You check the other shelves – also empty. Gator walks into the kitchen.

"Are you ready to eat? I was waiting for you." He asks, pulling out plates.

"Did you move the Coke? I remember there being two cans."

"Well... I drank them." Gator shrugs.

"But what about me?" You close the fridge with a little too much force. Not anger, but hurt.

"It was crazy hot today, you know that." Gator realizes he's done it again, he did not think about you, and now he's making up excuses.

"Of course, I know, Gator. I've spent all day in a stuffy office, and all I wanted was to come home, grab that stupid Coke, and lie down in bed. I buy even numbers of everything on purpose – one for you, one for me. Two cans of Coke, six bananas, four steaks. Or haven't you figured that out yet?" Your voice shakes unpleasantly, and you blink rapidly to keep from crying. "I'm going to shower." You mutter and leave Gator standing in the kitchen.

He stands in the middle of the kitchen with plates in his hands, staring in the direction you just disappeared behind the bathroom door. The sound of water comes almost immediately: you've turned on the shower, but he knows you're crying. You always hide your tears in the noise of water. He noticed that a couple of months ago, when you stayed over and he said something thoughtless that upset you, and he hasn't been able to forget it since.

"Fucking idiot." Gator mutters under his breath, sets the plate down on the table, and runs a hand over his face. His chest feels heavy, dull, and sickening. He messed up again. He let you down again. He hurt you again. He hates that this keeps happening lately.

Why do you never forget about him, and he...

What has he even done for you that was good?

Nothing.

Just takes, as if you owe him something.

Gator tries to remember if he's ever done something for you willingly. And he can't. Yes, he boiled pasta, he put the meat in the oven, he cleaned the house, but that's not "for you", that's basic household stuff that concerns both of you.

He's always lived by the principle "I don't need anything", and that principle has extended to you. He doesn't ask you for things, and he doesn't offer anything in return when you do something for him. And you do. Even when you don't want to, when you're tired, when you're not in the mood.

So Gator grabs his car keys and leaves the house. He drives to the nearest supermarket, where he buys a big bottle of Coke, as well as chips and your favorite chocolate. He hopes you're resting now, not still crying because of him being a jerk.

Gator walks back inside. You've already come out of the bathroom and shut yourself in the bedroom. Gator decides it's better to plate the food and then call you. He pours you a tall glass of Coke with ice, finishing setting the table.

You're lying on your side under the AC in just a t-shirt, facing the wall, mindlessly scrolling through your phone to distract yourself. You hear a knock at the door but don't respond. The tears have dried, but your eyes are still red and swollen.

"Can I come in? Please?" Gator's voice comes from behind the door.

"Yeah." You answer shortly.

Gator enters and stops immediately. You don't turn to look at him, and that's the worst punishment. "Wanna to eat? Dinner is ready."

You turn off your phone and see his reflection in the black screen. He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, picking at a hangnail. At least he genuinely seems ashamed. "I'll be there in a minute."

Gator goes back to the kitchen, and you go in the bathroom first to wash your face again. When you sit down at the table, you see that Gator went to the store: there's Coke in your glass and a chocolate bar next to it.

"I'm sorry about today. And about the other times, if there were any..." Gator begins, placing his hand over yours and squeezing gently. "I know I often think only of myself until it's too late, but I don't want to be the reason you cry."

"I don't want you to buy me chocolate after you realize you screwed up." You look at him, but not sternly. "I'm not even asking you to think about me every second. Just sometimes remember that you have me." Your voice gets quieter with each word, and it hurts Gator to hear it.

"I'll do better. I promise." He stands to hug you, and you bury your face in his tummy as he stands over you, stroking your head.

You really want to believe him.

You're getting ready for your little sister's birthday – she's turning 18. You spend the whole morning getting ready: makeup, hair, outfit. Gator tries to stay out of your way. He ironed his white shirt and gray nearly new trousers that he had left over from some other family gathering.

He looks at himself in the bedroom mirror while you put the finishing touches on your outfit. It seems to him like something's missing in him too. Gator reaches into the wardrobe and pulls out a slightly crumpled bag from the back. He never could bring himself to return that sweater, because it's the first gift anyone ever gave him with no occasion or asking. Gator puts the sweater on, smoothing out the wrinkles and straightening the twisted sleeves. The sweater fits well.

It looks great, especially with those trousers.

Gator walks into the hallway looking for you, because it's time to leave. You come out of the bathroom, fastening an earring. You freeze when you see him.

"I thought you returned it." You come closer, placing your hands on his shoulders.

"I should have at least said thank you." Gator lowers his head, takes your hands in his, and kisses your knuckles.

"I bought it because it matches your eyes." You kiss his cheek, leaving a shimmering trace of lip gloss.

"But they're just brown." He chuckles.

"They're chocolate, Gator."

"Even if they are, yours are still the prettiest." He leans in, and your foreheads touch. "Ready?"

"Yeah." You nod, and you head to the car.

Gator had already met your parents and the rest of your family. Actually, they wanted to meet him right away as soon as they learned you were dating Tillman's son, which worried them a little because of his father's reputation. After all, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. But their concerns proved unfounded: they liked him immediately, because now you have a man by your side who will protect and love you. Your lovestruck gaze said it all for you.

So you pull up to your parents' house. You two get out of the car, you ring the doorbell, and you wait for someone to open the door. It's your sister, already dressed up for the occasion, looking so grown-up, bearing some resemblance to you.

"Finally!" She hugs you. "We've been waiting for you."

"Happy birthday." Gator awkwardly hands her the gift bag.

Your sister theatrically coughs into her fist and, straightening her back, says in a low voice: "Thank you, Deputy Sheriff Tillman."

"Protecting the law and birthdays." He smiles, and you all laugh.

You and your sister go to the kitchen to help your mom, and you send Gator out back to help your father with the barbecue. He steps out into the backyard, where your father and younger brother are already getting the fire going.

"Good afternoon." Gator nods.

"Hi." Your younger brother greets him.

"Oh, Gator, hello." He claps Gator on the shoulder in greeting. "Right on time. You know how to grill meat?"

"Of course." And Gator gets to work. It's no trouble for him to light the charcoal and lay the meat on the grill. They ask him about work, about everything happening in town, and sometimes your brother asks about specific details of his job.

Gator catches himself thinking that this is probably what a real family should feel like: when people listen to you, take interest in what you do, and you don't have to weigh every word because it might be misinterpreted. And he's glad that he's now part of your family.

The meat is almost ready, so your younger brother asks Gator to play some video games with him, and your father tells them he'll finish up on his own. So Gator sits on the couch, hunched slightly in front of the big TV screen, trying to win at some game. He glances toward the kitchen, where you're bustling about: chopping salad, setting the table with silverware and neatly folded napkins, darting from room to room because your mom keeps asking you to bring things.

When you're done with the preparations, you come out of the kitchen and sit on the couch next to Gator. "We'll be able to sit down at the table soon."

"Great. And we already grilled the meat. Almost." Gator reports.

You watch the game until the screen flashes "winner" over Gator's character. "Hey, let me play against Gator too." You ask your brother.

"But we just started." He protests.

"Come on, just once." You answer, reaching for the controller. "Ple-ease."

"I want to play with Gator." He grumbles, not even looking at you. "Just sit and watch. You like watching anyway."

You roll your eyes but pull your hands back. You sit back down and pretend not to care. But Gator sees your fingers clench on your knees because you don't argue with the younger ones. It's useless.

And then Gator recognizes himself in that too.

Because he does the same thing every weekend. Sitting at his computer with headphones on, or in the living room, while you stand in the doorway asking, "Gates, wanna race? Or whatever you want." And he shakes his head and says "later". Never "come here". And you leave, not offended, you just leave, because you're used to the fact that video games were never meant for you.

And Gator suddenly feels a pang of sadness at how easily and subtly you get pushed out of the fun. Not even maliciously. Just out of habit.

Gator places his controller in your hands and moves back so you can see the center of the screen while he sits beside you. "If you won't let your sister play, you'll have to play with both of us." He wraps his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder, and places his hands over yours to show you which buttons to press.

You win two times in a row before your mom calls everyone to the table. While everyone gathers, you pull Gator by the hand into an empty room, and you steal kisses and giggle like teenagers.

You eat, laugh, and it all makes Gator incredibly happy. You can see how joyful he looks, how his eyes sparkle and little crow's feet appear around them when he smiles. And he sees how you keep track of everything: refilling everyone's drinks, adding more salad to empty plates. And Gator tries to take care of you too, passing things from the other end of the table when needed and offering you meals.

When it's time for tea, you're the busiest of all again. Your mom asks you to cut the fruit, but you also clear away the dirty plates and put them in the sink, and you stick the candles into the cake. Gator lights them and carefully carries it to the table.

You cut the cake while your mom pours tea, and your brother and sister argue over the bigger piece. When everyone sits down and you're still in the kitchen with your mom, Gator swaps his piece of cake with yours, because yours has less frosting, while his even has that decorative cherry on top.

You sit down next to him, looking around the whole table, and contentedly pick up your spoon and pull your teacup closer. You blink a few times, staring at this perfect slice of cake, noticing out of the corner of your eye what piece Gator now has. He's trying not to look at you, busy talking to your parents, so you reach under the table for his hand and squeeze it.

An hour later, you're getting ready to drive home. You say goodbye to your family, hug everyone, and Gator notices your eyes are suspiciously shiny. A tear rolls down your cheek, but you quickly brush it away, pretending to fix your hair. You watch as the car pulls away from your parents' house, and there's so much bitterness in your gaze, as if you're leaving something behind that you can never get back.

"What's wrong?" Gator stops at a traffic light and turns to you. "Everything went well, right? What's the matter?" He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear to look at you.

"Nothing. Everything was just perfect." You give a weak smile.

"And that was thanks to you."

"Exactly. Maybe that's the problem." Your shoulders slump slightly. "Never mind, it's stupid." You wave it off.

"No, it's not. It's not stupid at all, those are your feelings." Gator himself is a little surprised he has said that. He looks for a place to pull over to talk to you right now, so he veers off the main road to the shoulder. "Tell me. I'm listening."

"You know, sometimes I want to be the one sitting at the table waiting for someone to put food on my plate, for someone to light candles for me, or to argue with my siblings over the bigger piece of cake. Like they do. As if it's normal to demand to be loved louder, more insistently, more selfishly. But I've never done that. I've settled for what I was given and thought it was enough. Even when I wanted more." You can't hold back your tears anymore, because your mind is racing through all the birthdays of your brother and sister that you helped your parents prepare for. And your own birthdays. Which you also organized for everyone but yourself. "I love them, and I know they love me, but I want to be my parents' daughter again, not just one of the adults."

"Baby... Come here." Gator unbuckles his seatbelt and pulls you into a hug. "I'm sorry. I thought that's just how it was supposed to be. That you loved being busy, that you liked being the one who organizes everything. And I never even noticed how you end up left out every time."

"It feels like if I don't do it, no one will. Not because they don't want to help or don't know how. They're just used to me doing it. Since childhood." You sniffle, and Gator rubs your back with his big, warm hand. "They're kids. They were and still are. But I'm not anymore. Maybe I never was, because I don't even remember when it happened. I had to become responsible too early, and if as a child I thought being an adult was cool, now... I'm afraid that if I stop being the one who does everything, no one will notice me anymore."

"I know that feeling. My father only demanded that I act like an adult, more precisely, like him, and I did everything he asked, just so he'd see that I existed and was worth something. And I'm bad at the most important things, like reading your emotions or not just thinking about myself. No one ever took care of me, and I somehow decided that I didn't owe anything to anyone either." He pulls back to look at you. "And then you appeared in my life, I kept acting like I was still alone. Today I saw what that looks like from the outside. And I didn't like it, even if it wasn't intentional, because you really do deserve to be taken care of." He smiles at you.

"Gator..." You smear the tears across your cheeks.

"You don't have to be always responsible for everything and everyone. And on all your future birthdays, I won't let you lift a finger. Actually, any day of the year when you need a break. We can goof around together, play games, build a pillow fort in the middle of the living room. Anything so you don't feel like you missed out on something, even if it can't turn back time. We can catch up on it all, starting with this." He peppers your whole face with kisses.

"I'd really like that." You sniffle, and Gator pulls some tissues from the glove compartment for you. "But today you noticed me." You say, holding his hand.

"When you smiled, that was the best part of the celebration." He kisses your forehead, your temple, under your ear, and you spend a while longer in silence, wrapped in each other's arms. And you finally think it's right to tell him about the doubts that have been keeping you up at night.

"To be honest, I've started wondering lately if we're right match for each other." You say, and Gator's hand freezes on your cheek. He looks frightened, his eyes darting across your face, searching for some sign.

"Oh... And you... Do you still think that?" His other hand grips yours tighter, desperately, as if something is about to either end or begin anew.

"No, no, Gator! I just started thinking more about us." You feel embarrassed by how you phrased it.

"Okay..." Gator looks down, pressing his lips together.

"No, I wanted you to know. And I'm not leaving or..."

"If you've thought about it, it means you care. Let's talk about it."

"With the move, everything started feeling a little sharper, our rough edges rubbing together. And I started thinking we might not make it. That my habit of being the caretaker and your habit of not looking around – it's a collision that'll eventually break us." You sigh, feeling the weight in your chest.

"You're right. You shouldn't have to cry in the car for me to finally tell you that you deserve to be cared for too." Gator blinks rapidly, squinting.

"But I told you, and you changed. You kept your promise. And today I realised it's a chance to understand that we can learn and complement each other even better." You smile and stroke his shoulder.

"Yeah, I guess I can be selfish enough for both of us." He jokes, and you both laugh. "But today I saw how you watch over everything, and it made me want to give back to you in the same way. I mean, with care. Not just because you told me to, but because I really do love you."

Those words have never sounded so genuine. Yes, he sometimes texts you "ily" when you're upset and he's not around; he whispers it in your ear, almost inaudibly, when you're making love and coming together; he says "me too", because you say it first most of the time.

But this is different.

Gator always tried to emulate his father in every way, striving to measure up to him. So when he was around twenty and still hadn't reached the career heights he could brag about, he decided that getting his nipples pierced seemed like a great idea. To be honest, he'd never even asked Roy whether there was any actual point to it, or whether it was just the same mistake Gator himself had made.

The process itself wasn't pleasant, and the aftermath was even worse. He hadn't expected the piercings to take so long to heal or to cause so much discomfort. On top of that, Gator had become sensitive. Very sensitive. Which, of course, he didn't like, though a couple of times, purely out of interest, he'd experimented with himself, and never went back to it again.

So in addition to the stupid tattoo on his arm, he now had piercings, turning his body into some kind of map of his youthful foolishness.

When you started dating him, you had no idea about his spicy little secret. He never even told you! You noticed it yourself – the slightly protruding nipples under his tight tank top when he undressed in front of you. And the first time you had sex, you wanted to see how Gator reacted to touch. But he disappointed you by forbidding you to touch him near that area, which only fueled your curiosity even more, because you don't give up that easily...

You're lying with Gator on the couch, watching some action movie whose title you can't even remember, while Gator seems genuinely absorbed in it. You're bored, and you want to get his attention. You squirm, pressing closer to him, and Gator finds himself more and more pinned against the back of the couch.

"One more awkward move, and someone's ending up on the floor." Gator warns you jokingly.

"I just want to be closer to you." You blink innocently, fluttering your long lashes. "Is the movie really more interesting than me?"

"Come here." Gator places his hands on your waist and pulls you closer. Now you're lying on top of him. "I've got something more interesting for us to do..." He leans in for a kiss, and you smile against his lips.

"Mmm... Much better." The kiss is slow and languid, unhurried. Gator seems to completely forget about the movie – his fingers start roaming up your back, playing with the folds of your shirt.

You part your lips, letting Gator deepen the kiss. He bites your upper lip first, tugging it gently, then runs his tongue along your teeth. You break the kiss for a few seconds to catch your breath, and then his lips are on yours again. Your tongues intertwine, and you melt when his hand slips under your shirt and settles on your lower back, pulling you against him.

You trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips, then down his neck, and rest your hand on his chest. You make barely perceptible movements with your pinkies, brushing against his piercings. You feel his breath against your lips, and for a moment your plan works even better than you expected: Gator tenses and holds his breath. But at the very last second, just as his lips are about to meet yours, Gator suddenly pulls back.

"What are you doing?" He looks from you to your hands resting on his chest, questioning.

"Nothing." You giggle.

"We've talked about this." He places his hands over yours and gently moves them away from the forbidden zone.

"Come on, Gator, you can't pretend you don't like it anymore." You stroke his cheeks.

"You're not going to stop bothering me, are you?" He sighs.

"Nope." You shake your head. "I let you do whatever you want with me, but you won't let me have one tiny indulgence."

"Fair."

"You'll like it, I promise." You're almost touching noses now.

"Consider today an exception. But only once. Today. Got it?" Gator gives a weak smile.

"Yes-yes." You nod, and feeling victorious, you straddle him. You tug at the hem of his shirt, making him sit up slightly so you can pull it off.

"Then I'll take yours off too – I need something to look at." Gator smirks and removes your t-shirt in one fast motion, leaving you in a lacy, semi-transparent bra and matching panties. "What a view..." He practically drools at the sight of you, and you slide down slightly so you're sitting right where his cock is hardening.

Gator groans at that, pressing back into the couch cushions as if trying to escape your touch, but his resistance crumbles when you finally pinch his nipple between your fingers and do the same to the other. His breathing hitches, and his cock twitches beneath your thighs.

"Fuck." He growls, his voice hoarse. His thumb hooks onto the lace of your bra, pulling one cup down slightly to expose your breast. He gives your nipple a hard pinch, and you gasp, arching your back as the sharp pleasure shoots down your spine.

"Gator..."

"Shh." He whispers, shifting his attention to your other breast, stroking it with his fingers. "Let me play too."

"Tonight you're the pillow princess. Let me make you feel good." You push him back onto the couch so his head rests on the armrest, letting him comfortably enjoy the show. You pin his wrists above his head with one hand – just to hold him there, because Gator isn't resisting. With your other hand, you cup his nipple and slowly roll it between your thumb and forefinger, watching his reaction.

"Oh my God." He hisses through clenched teeth, his hands curling into fists. You don't waste the advantage. Leaning down, you take his nipple into your mouth, first tracing the areola and the piercing ring with your tongue, then sucking gently. He tastes like skin and salt, and the metal is slightly warm from his body rising temperature.

Gator opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

He can't. And you're already making your way across his chest, leaving an open-mouthed trail of kisses to the other side. One of your hands is still playing with the piercing, tugging it just enough to make him moan. It's pure bliss for your ears, because he's usually pretty quiet. But now his moans vibrate through his ribs and seep into you, settling as heat low in your belly.

You release his wrists, because Gator is squirming, seeking friction, and you need both hands. Your mouth descends on his nipple again, sucking diligently, your tongue working the metal ring, pushing it up and down, while your free hand slides between your bodies to stroke his cock.

"Yes, just like that." Gator exhales loudly through his nose, burying his face in your neck, making you feel ticklish and impossibly hot.

Gator's hands settle on your hips again, guiding you, urging you to grind against him. The couch creaks beneath you in a steady rhythm that matches the wet sounds your mouth is making on him. Every time your tongue touches the ring, you feel his cock twitch, and your vagina clenches around nothing, but you don't care.

Right now, all you want is to see Gator come.

The friction of your panties against his hard cock, even through his sweatpants, is driving you crazy: the lace scratches against your swollen clit with every movement. You whimper, biting your lip, rocking against him, trying to quell the growing arousal between your legs.

You decide to give Gator a respite, and shift your attention to his neck, leaving a few hickeys and licking his Adam's apple. He smells intoxicating: musk and animal desire. You nibble at the thin skin, drawing stifled moans from him.

"Please don't stop." He exhales, kissing you, but it's barely a kiss – he's mashing his open mouth against your lips, occasionally licking your cheeks by accident. Gator loses rhythm and grinds haphazardly against your thigh, desperate to come but unable to without your stimulation.

You've never seen him turn into a whimpering mess this fast.

"So impatient. Should I punish you?" You whisper in his ear, sucking on his lobe.

"No, I... I like what you're doing, keep going, I can't..." He winces at the dampness around his cock, his boxers soaked with pre-cum, but your panties are soaked through too, so you decide not to tease him for long.

You return to his chest, this time rougher. You're not afraid to use your teeth, so you nibble the skin around before gently biting him, drawing another moan. You delay his climax, pretending you're doing it not on purpose, sliding the very tip of your tongue into the ring, touching the sensitive nipple.

Gator squeezes your ass, helping you move against him. He runs his hand along your inner thigh and pushes your panties aside. Two fingers slip between your wet lips, but he doesn't push them into you – he just collects the slick leaking from your opening and spreads it around. He put his hand onto your mound and circles your clit with his thumb.

Both of you are breathless, Gator taking shallow, ragged breaths because he's already trembling from overstimulation. He hates it when you slow down, but he hates even more how much he loves your games. He's desperately chasing release, so he holds your thigh, syncing your movements. You grind against him the way he wants, and Gator shudders beneath you, still stroking your clit, grazing it with his blunt nail a few times, and a wave of orgasm crashes over you.

Gator notices your eyes closing and keeps pressing on your clit, prolonging your orgasm. The mess you've made between you two only turns you on more, and you press harder against Gator, squeezing him with your thighs, making short, rapid pelvic thrusts.

"Come on, baby. You're doing so well." You say softly after a few moments of silence, as if you'd both been struck mute. "Come for me, sweetheart." You look into his eyes and reach up to cup his cheek. Now you're gazing at each other. Gator looks wrecked, but you're determined to see this through. You kiss him on the lips, along his jaw, lower and lower, back to where you've started. With one hand, you lazily stroke his peak, mirroring the movements he made on your clit. You lick the other one, and Gator watches intently, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of you with his ring on your tongue. That could have been the ultimate reward, but you don't stop – you take him into your mouth, first licking and sucking gently, then you clamp the metal ring between your teeth along with the nipple and pull.

Gator moans, his shoulders shaking, goosebumps rippling across his body. Sharp pain mingles with pleasure, and Gator comes in his pants, his hips jerking one last time. He buries his face in your neck, and for a while, you just lie there, trying to catch your breath. Gator carefully turns, rolling you both onto your sides. You still can't move, your thighs ache from bouncing, and between them it's terribly sticky.

Gator shamelessly drinks you in, and he can't help but like it: your mouth is slightly open, lips swollen, your breast has fallen out of your bra and rises and falls with your heavy breathing, your panties still pushed aside, exposing your glistening folds and tumescent clit. Gator doesn't look much better: a few hickeys are starting to bloom on his neck, his chest glistens with your saliva, and a dark spot is visible on his slightly sagging sweatpants.

You place your hand on his waist, tracing down to his hip bone, slipping your fingers under the waistband of his boxers. "Gator, did you...?"

It's been a week and a half since that incident. Well, since the meeting with Gator. You'd rather remember him than anything else that happened that day.

And he probably takes up way more space in your head now than a police officer just doing his job should. You catch yourself more often than not unconsciously looking for him: when a patrol car drives by, you look at the driver, and when policemen stop at a coffee shop for a cup of coffee and donuts, you scan their faces, never spotting Gator among them.

You would have called him by now, but you don't want to seem importunate. He's got more important things to do, surely, than spend time with some girl he met while working. That was just basic politeness, right? Why overthink it...

You're just another episode of his work shift. Nothing more.

But what about Gator?

Every evening, when he patrols the area, he drives by your house. Never stopping. He slows down just a little for a couple of seconds, looks at the light in your window, and drives on. He convinces himself it's just part of the route. That he's checking if everything's okay, if you're home, if you got back from work safely.

But he knows the truth.

He's looking for you. At every intersection, at every coffee shop where he stops, in every similar figure walking along the shoulder.

He replays that evening hundreds of times in his head, wondering if you'll have the courage to call him – since you're a little shy – or maybe you don't want anything to do with him anymore and just want to forget that day like a terrible nightmare.

Gator remembers your name. Your face. Your voice. Your address.

And he doesn't know what to do with it, because if he's too persistent, how's he any different from those jerks on the street?

So you're both waiting for the right moment or until one of you makes the next move.

The day's been overcast from the start, so, as per Murphy's Law, the rain starts exactly when your workday ends. Correction: your awful workday. It starts with a trainee spilling coffee all over you, forcing you to spend the whole day with a stain on your blouse because your jacket can't cover it fully. Then your boss demands you fill out several reports that need more than a day, but you manage somehow, cutting your lunch break from thirty minutes down to fifteen.

All you want is to go home.

You walk out of the building and open your umbrella, carefully going down the wet steps. The rain's coming down hard, with sharp gusts of wind that suddenly shift direction. Your hair falls into your eyes, and just as you try to shield yourself from the stinging drops, the wind changes again and your umbrella flips inside out. You stumble, trying to hold onto it, because you're getting carried away like a sailboat.

You run back under the awning. Your umbrella's broken, your mascara's running, your shoulders and back are soaked, and there's water sloshing in your shoes. You could ask someone for a ride to the bus stop, but your friend who has a car is on sick leave, and your coworker's not going your way, besides, he's already gone, since the office is obviously empty.

You stand there for five minutes. It's pointless to expect the downpour to let up anytime soon, so you're left with only one option.

Gator Tillman.

Gator's lying on the couch, tossing M&Ms into his mouth, when the phone rings. Unknown number.

"Good evening, Gator Tillman, Deputy Sheriff of Stark County." He says the usual line without missing a beat.

"Hello. It's me." You feel flustered and stupid.

"Is everything okay?" Gator asks immediately, recognizing your voice.

"Yes! Nothing happened to me, I just..." You sigh. "Are you busy?"

"Nope, it's my day off, I'm completely free." Gator assures you, but you feel embarrassed anyway.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you..."

"Hey, it's all good. I'm not doing anything. So what's up? Do you need me to come over?" Gator turns off the TV, grabs his keys, and pulls on his jacket.

"Yes, please. It's pouring out there, my umbrella's broken, and it's a pretty long walk to the bus stop."

"Be there soon. Send me your address."

Fifteen minutes later, you spot his car pulling up. He stops in front of the office, and you start coming down the steps. He gets out quickly and hurries over to you, opening his umbrella. He's holding a black leather jacket in his hands, which was apparently on him before, because when he silently drapes it over your shoulders, you feel the warmth.

"Thank you so much." You press a little closer to him, ducking under the umbrella, but it's still too small for the two of you, and rain drips off the edge onto Gator's shoulder and arm. You reach the car, and you're not sure where to put your broken umbrella, its spokes sticking out every which way, impossible to fold up like normal.

"Give it to me." Gator takes it from you and tosses it on the floor behind the back seats as he gets in.

"Oh god." You exhale and relax, closing your eyes. He turned on the seat warmer in advance.

"Quite the weather." Gator starts the car and heads toward your house. "You're not too cold, are you?"

"No." You shake your head and pull the jacket all the way on, slipping your arms through the sleeves. Now you have a chance to get a better look at Gator. Today he looks completely different: his hair's a little fluffy from the humidity and probably incredibly soft, he's not in his uniform, and... "You have a bruise?"

"Oh, that... Got it during an arrest a couple days ago." He chuckles – it's just routine for him.

"Did the perp fight back?"

"Almost. I walked into a doorframe."

"What?" You cover your mouth with your hand, holding back a laugh. His behavior doesn't always match the image he projects.

"It was dark in there! And cramped!" He looks at you, gesturing with one hand. "Go on, go on, laugh it up. It's not my umbrella that turned into a piece of modern art."

"Sorry, but that's actually funny. Did you put that in your report as serious bodily injury?" You see Gator barely holding back a laugh himself.

"Don't forget whose car you're in right now. And whose jacket you're wearing." He says it importantly, with a hint of pompousness.

"One-one, Officer Tillman."

"At least, losers better stick together. Two negatives make a positive and all that." You both laugh.

You chat easily, like old friends, without any awkwardness. Everything feels simpler with Gator.

You pull up to your house.

"And... Mission accomplished. Your home, miss." Gator turns to you, smiling. He gets out and opens his umbrella, then opens your door, offering a hand to help you out. He walks you all the way to the porch, and you stop there. You want to thank him somehow.

"Maybe you want to come in?" You ask suddenly.

"If you're inviting me."

"I mean, just dinner. Nothing more." You add, making sure he understands correctly.

"Yeah, sounds great. I'll be right back then, I'll grab your umbrella from the car, maybe I can fix it." You open the door while he goes back for the umbrella. You hang his jacket on the hook and take off your shoes. He follows you in.

"I can sit somewhere while you get cleaned up." Gator says, stopping in the middle of the hallway.

"You can go into the living room. I'll be quick." You head to your room, and Gator's left alone in your living room.

He doesn't sit down right away – he looks around carefully. On the back of the couch is a cute knitted blanket with little flowers, on the shelf are books with dog-eared pages, a few whimsical colored glass vases. Gator sits on the edge of the couch, hands on his knees, feeling a little awkward in this cozy room. He feels like he doesn't belong here. He's used to a different environment, where everything's rougher, sharper, where people rarely talk about simple things.

But here, in your space, even the air feels softer, probably because of the faint scent of vanilla candles.

He hears your footsteps from the hallway and looks up. You come out in dry clothes, your hair still damp but brushed, your face clean, without smeared mascara. You look different: simpler, more vulnerable, and it makes his heart tighten, because he doesn't know how to be that open and easy.

"I think we can have dinner. Do you like tomato soup?" You ask, heading to the kitchen, and Gator follows you.

"I like everything."

You step into the kitchen. It's small but cozy. Everything matches, and on the counter there are little delicate things: matching salt and pepper shakers, a copper saucepan, a fruit bowl, a porcelain cup with a gold rim.

"Your place is nice." Gator says, pulling out a chair.

"Thanks." You take a pot out of the fridge and put the soup on the stove to heat up. "Garlic bread?"

"You're gonna spoil me, and I'll end up coming over every night." Gator props his chin on his hand, watching you. You almost say you wouldn't mind, so you steer the conversation elsewhere.

"What do you usually do on weekends?"

"Sleep." You turn and look at him, and he looks back. He looks a little pitiful. "Not very exciting, I know."

"For someone who works a lot and gets tired, that's not bad." You set a steaming bowl of soup in front of him, along with sliced bread.

"I also eat sometimes after sleeping!" Gator tries the soup and practically purrs with pleasure. "This is insanely good."

"Glad to hear. Enjoy your meal." You start eating too. "Do you cook?"

"Nope. I usually order food, or... instant noodles, jerky, canned soup. Your soup's way above all that."

"Nothing special." You shrug.

"I've got low standards. One time I found a chunk of mold in my soup. Haven't eaten out of a can since."

"Gator, gross!" You wrinkle your nose and laugh.

"The tough life of a sheriff, what can I say." He snorts.

"I haven't laughed like this in a long time." You admit.

"Me neither. I'm happy I could cheer you up." Gator gives you a shy smile.

After eating, he offers to do the dishes, but you send him to work on the umbrella instead. When you're done, you walk into the living room, where Gator's sitting on the floor, hunched over the umbrella. He actually fits surprisingly well into the overall aesthetic of your home.

"Look, I fixed it." Gator stands up and folds the umbrella, then presses the button and it opens. "Just had to put the spokes back into the loops."

"Oh, thanks! I thought it was a goner."

"Good as new. Almost." Gator takes the umbrella back to the hallway and returns. He sits on the other end of the couch, and you move a little closer. You notice his shoulders drop: he looks less tense, even relaxed.

You chat for about another hour: about work, hobbies, a little about childhood, but more about yours, because Gator answers reluctantly, and you don't want to interrogate him. You yawn, and Gator checks the time. It turns out it's just past nine, and neither of you noticed how fast the time flew.

"I think it's time for me to go, I've overstayed my welcome." Gator stands up, and you walk him to the hallway.

"Thanks for today." You give him a modest smile.

"Thank you too. I haven't had an evening like that in a while. It was nice." He puts on his jacket and pauses. He needs to say something else, but he's so afraid of scaring away this fragile evening that built itself, without Gator's usual pushiness and your shyness. "Listen, what about just meeting up? You know, not when one of us gets into trouble?"

"I'd love to." Your eyes light up.

"Great, yeah, cool. I'll text you then."

"I'll be waiting. See you."

"See you."

You watch through the window as he walks to his car, and Gator, noticing you, waves goodbye.

Poor reader in this chapter is like:

At first, Gator just enjoys the sound, but then he starts listening to the lyrics and freezes. The melody is slow, syrupy, like cough medicine that tastes of licorice and sage. Bitter, but healing.

He'd swear that in that second, something inside him shifted.

Everything inside him clenched, ached, and collapsed.

Gator's thoughts follow the song's words, and he remembers everything he's been through.

I keep tellin' myself I'm bad

He thinks about his stupid, put-on coolness – something everyone around him expects, except him – just to maintain his status. And really, his whole demeanor is a constant act, a mask to fit the image he's upheld so long he's forgotten who he really is. His vulnerable side stays hidden in the shadows, unworthy of being shown to anyone. Too weak.

His mind flashes to all the choices he didn't make, but that cost someone their life. All those times the coldness of a weapon replaced a warm touch. The necessity of cruelty stole everything he'd wanted to bring into the world. He wanted to be a shield, not a sword; to be anything but his father's weapon, obeying and serving, never daring to talk back.

I keep treatin' myself like trash

Gator punishes himself because he's sure he deserves to suffer. People like him don't deserve anything good. He isn't worthy. He has one function – leaving behind only a report at work and a debrief for his father.

He's grown to despise himself, to see in the mirror the wrinkles from exhaustion, the dark circles under his eyes from sleepless nights, eyes that haven't been lit by a spark of interest or any other feeling for a long time. They've become gray, dull, their pupils reflecting the same gray world, drained of life's colors.

Gator forbids himself to feel.

He turns off the radio as soon as the song ends. Now in a long while, he just wants to be. To exist. Independent of assignments and orders, expectations and failures. In silence.

And, it seems, for the first time, he allowed himself to feel that aching, bitter, but so very real grief for the person he could have been, but will never become.

The rush of emotion frightened Gator a little, but he still finds the song when he gets home after his shift, plays it at minimum volume, and listens to it again, lying on his bed, hands folded across his chest.

Maybe not everything in him has died.

Gator has been driving around town for hours, aimlessly patrolling the streets. Truth is, hardly anything ever happens here, considering his father keeps the whole state in fear. No one wants to willingly stir up that kind of trouble. Sure, incidents happen sometimes – drunken fights in bars where he has to settle things up, pawnshop and jewelry store robberies that always end with fingerprinting and upgrading security systems.

Gator turns at the intersection and pulls into the parking lot of a convenience store. The night shift is going to be long, so he needs to stock up on energy and patience.

Gator walks past the produce aisles, ignores the healthy snacks and granola bars, passes by the cookies and juice, though he does buy those for home sometimes. Orange juice and oatmeal cookies remind him of carefree childhood days, elementary school, when someone in class had a birthday. Gator grabs a bag of chips, some jerky with too much pepper in it, and an energy drink that looks exactly like cheap chemical floor cleaner. Probably even the smell and its taste are the same. On his way to the checkout counter, Gator picks up a couple of packs of instant noodles – for lunch or tomorrow's dinner, because he doesn't have much money left until payday and he can't afford delivery.

He pays, nods at the sleepy cashier, and steps back out into the damp night. Gator gets into the patrol car, sets the energy drink in the cupholder, and stares at the empty street for a while. The streetlights cast yellow light on the wet asphalt with pools, somewhere in the distance a dog whines, and he rolls down the window so the smoke from his vape doesn't build up inside.

Gator opens the chips, chews without appetite, thinking about how nothing in this town will ever change as long as his father runs everything. Roy Tillman decides who stays to live and who better get out of town if they cross him. And as long as Roy Tillman's people know the police won't touch them, they'll keep making everyone play by their rules, while Gator just drives around the streets pretending to protect a fake peace.

Another patrol car pulls into the spot next to him, and Gator quickly starts the engine and drives off before one of his colleagues can come over to "say hi". Gator doesn't want to admit it, but yes, he avoids unnecessary conversation with anyone from the station. All it takes is one screw-up, and everyone finds out immediately – and he wouldn't care, except those stories always make their way back to his father.

He drives slowly through the neighborhood where all the houses look the same, differing only in the color of the fence or the curtains in the windows. Somewhere a light is on, someone is watching TV, someone else has already fallen asleep. Occasionally he passes closed shops and 24-hour diners, but the streets are empty, until Gator notices a small figure walking along the road. It's a girl, and she keeps glancing around, sometimes freezing for a second, listening for footsteps behind her. Pretty risky to be wandering around like that, so Gator decides to watch from a distance so he doesn't scare her even more.

You walk down the dimly lit street, where there's one streetlamp in front of every house. You feel like a moth fluttering from one source of light to the next. You stayed late at work today, and the last bus left right before you reached the stop. You try to avoid taking shortcuts through alleys because it's already dark, and being alone on the street at night scares you: it's not exactly safe out here.

Suddenly, you see a group of young men come around the corner, laughing and stumbling. Clearly drunk. And they're heading your way. You have nowhere to turn, so you decide to keep walking forward and just go around them, hoping they won't pay you any attention. You're not even walking on the paved path anymore, you step on the grass.

You're almost level with them when a whistle cuts through the air.

You pretend not to hear them, hunching your shoulders and quickening your pace. Your heart pounds somewhere in your throat, each beat thudding dully in your temples. There are three of them, and you are alone. Not a single person around. Who wouldn't be terrified? You count your steps, trying to push down the panic: the safe turn is still about twenty meters away, but those twenty meters now feel infinitely far.

You look down, and one of them steps into your path, blocking you. "Hey, beautiful, don't you want to have some fun tonight?"

You don't answer.

"How rude to stay silent when someone asks you a question." The second one growls. Their figures seem enormous, their shadows making them look even taller and scarier.

You want to keep walking, but your legs feel like lead, glued to the ground. You can't move an inch, and your whole body freezes in fear. You feel your shirt sticking to your back from the sweat.

A hand lands on your fragile shoulder, heavy and rough. His fingers tighten, and you're yanked around, spun to face them. You cry out, but the sound comes out strangled, squeaky. You can't even scream loud enough for anyone to hear you.

In front of you stands a guy with cloudy eyes, reeking of cheap beer and tobacco. "So where are you rushing off to, huh?" He exhales right in your face, and you feel everything inside you clench. You try to regain control, to break free from his grip, but his fingers only dig deeper into your shoulder near your collarbone. Tears get stuck in your throat, and your eyes dart around in panic.

Gator throws the bag of chips onto the passenger seat, not even noticing they're spilling everywhere. The engine roars as he floors the gas. The headlights blast the guys' faces with blinding white light, and Gator parks so that his hood stops just a meter away from them: bold, leaving no doubt that this is no accident. He steps out of the car, his brow frowned, and to intimidate these guys a little more, his hand rests on his belt near his gun.

"Something wrong?" One of them asks in an arrogant tone.

"Get your hand off her." Gator says gruffly, stepping closer. "Someone's getting too cocky, forgot who you're talking to." He looks at your frightened face.

"Some patrol guy thinks he's the sheriff?" The guy holding your shoulder laughs like a hyena.

"Does the name Tillman ring a bell? I'm trying to be nice here. For now." His eyes glint dangerously, and the threat works. "Or should I check your documents?" He says it so sternly that the guys don't wait for a second invitation. The first one turns away silently, elbowing his buddy, and all three quickly disappear into the darkness around the corner, not even looking back. Their voices fade, laughter replaced by the sound of retreating footsteps on the wet asphalt.

Gator looks at you, so shaken and lost. He leans down slightly to meet your eyes, and his expression softens immediately.

"Are you okay?"

You blink, processing the question, then nod.

"Good. It's all good now. The danger's gone." Gator shoves his hands in his pockets so he doesn't scare you. He doesn't want to leave you here te again, and he's afraid of doing something wrong. "Do you want to get into the car?"

"Yeah, okay." You hug yourself, rubbing your arms. Fear has wrapped around you, and you can't shake the goosebumps pricking like needles.

Gator opens the door, cursing himself for spilling the chips. He brushes the crumbs off the seat with his sleeve and tosses the bag with chips onto the dashboard. "Sorry about the mess. Here, sit." He closes the door carefully. Gator gets behind the wheel but doesn't start the engine. He just sits there, staring at the empty road where those three guys stood just minutes ago, giving you time to pull yourself together. Gator knows that too much attention can do more harm than good, so he stays quiet for a while.

You place your hands on your knees, still trying to calm down, because intrusive thoughts swarm in your head. What could have happened if not for the officer? Why can't you defend yourself, why do you just freeze? Why do you...

You don't notice your breathing quickening, your eyes filling with tears, but Gator notices everything.

"Hey, hey, easy, breathe. It's all over now. Breathe with me." He reaches for the glove compartment, pulls out a pack of tissues, and holds them out to you. His hands are big and calloused, but he tries to be as gentle as possible, raising his eyebrows and pressing his lips together.

"Thanks." You take a tissue and dab at your eyes. Gator looks away to give you space without his watchful gaze. You sigh and rub your cheeks, still tense, glancing around. "Can we go?" You ask quietly.

"Of course, yeah. Do you live nearby?" Gator starts the engine and catches your shiver out of the corner of his eye. He can't tell if it's from fear or cold. He turns and grabs a blanket from the back seat – the one he sometimes uses when he sleeps in the car. You reach for it, but your hands don't cooperate, fumbling with it awkwardly. Gator helps you drape it over your shoulders without touching you.

He's careful.

"Yes, at the end of the street." You clutch the blanket tighter. "Thank you. For saving me." You remember you haven't thanked him yet.

"It's my job. This town's full of idiots like those guys." He sighs. "I'm Deputy Gator Tillman, by the way." He extends his hand, and before he feels like a fool, because he's extending his hand to a girl, not to a colleague or a school friend, you shake it.

"Nice to meet you." You give a weak smile, and your stomach betrays you with a growl. "Sorry." The tips of your ears burn.

"It's fine. We can stop somewhere to eat." Gator first thinks about offering you the jerky, but that would be too much.

"No, no!" You shake your head. "You're on duty, and I'm just..." You feel embarrassed immediately.

"I'm not offering you a dinner at a restaurant. I'm offering to buy you something warm. Or, if you want, we can just drive to your place and I'll drop you off. Whatever you say." Gator turns the key in the ignition.

"We could stop at the drive-thru, it's around the corner." You give in.

"And also... if you're worried I might take you somewhere, you can call your friend or your parents. Whatever makes you feel safe." He tries to smile, but it comes out a little strange. And even kind of cute. "Can I ask why you were out alone so late?" You notice him tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, probably nervous.

"I got held up at work, and the bus to my area left right from under my nose. So I decided to walk, hoping that nothing would happen."

You two drive in silence after that. Gator pulls up to the window to make an order. You don't hear what he says. You press your forehead to the cold glass and just watch the road, eyes half-closed. Gator feels reliable, like he knows what he's doing. You're lost in thought as Gator drives slowly further. You flinch at a light tap on your shoulder.

"Here, careful, it is hot." Gator hands you a cup with a drink.

"Thanks. How much do I owe you?" You take a sip. The hot chocolate warms you pleasantly.

"Nothing. Call it government compensation." He waves it off, and you laugh.

"I thought it worked differently."

"It might be in the fine print somewhere, some federal law about victim restitution or something." Gator approaches the end of the street, and you look out the window so you don't miss your house.

"Right here."

"Got it." He stops in the driveway. You take the blanket off your shoulders and fold it. Gator gets out and opens your door.

"Thank you again. For everything."

"You're welcome." Gator replies, and you stand there awkwardly facing each other. Gator clears his throat. "Hey, take my card. That's my number, just in case. I hope nothing like this happens again, but if you ever need a ride... anytime." He hands you his card, and your fingers brush for a few seconds longer than a simple handoff requires.

"Okay." You smile at him. "Good night, Officer Tillman."

"Good night." He nods and watches until you disappear inside the house.

Tonight, he'll definitely have something to think about during his patrol.

Finally, it's Friday after a long and exhausting week. You've already washed off your makeup and are getting ready for bed. You're brushing your teeth, leaning over the sink to rinse your face, when suddenly you feel Gator come up behind you. His hands, resting on your waist, slide lower and lower, and you feel him leave a few wet kisses on your neck. You straighten up, water streaming down your cheeks to your chin and dripping onto your t-shirt. You give Gator a deliberately stern look in the mirror, then splash him with water to get him to stop rubbing against you before it becomes a problem.

"Hey! I'm not a dog!" Gator exclaims, wiping his face with his palm. Oh, now he's going to do that defenceless expression, the one you find so hard to resist. Those big brown eyes drive you crazy, and he looks like innocence personified.

"Then puppy dog eyes definitely won't help you. I'm really tired. Not tonight, okay?" You pat his back and head toward the bedroom. You change into a clean oversized t-shirt and finally get into bed. A few minutes later, Gator comes in, huffing adorably, not angrily, and you stifle a laugh. Of course, he turns his back to you. Sometimes Gator acts like a child, but he just wants the love he was so deprived of before you came into his life. And if you're talking about love languages, it's always easier for him to show than to say, so physical intimacy is his universal way of expressing his feelings. He cares about your pleasure and never pressures you into anything you don't like. Actually, you were even surprised at how quickly he changed his habits when you brought something up, and you always try to find a compromise.

A funny thought crosses your mind. Maybe...

"Goodnight." Gator mutters. He spoke first, which means he's starting to worry that he might have offended you with his persistence. How can you leave him without a reward? He tries so hard.

"Do you want me to scratch your head?" You ask and immediately hear the rustle of sheets. Gator lays his head on your chest, and you kiss the top of his head several times, then stroke his hair, enjoying the softness of his locks without several layers of gel.

You like this arrangement of things. But for variety, it's not a crime to have some fun sometimes, right?

And you decide to start small.

After breakfast, you plan to drive to the store so you can cook a proper dinner later, since you've been ordering takeout almost all week: you were swamped at work, and Gator had too many night shifts. While Gator is getting ready, you grab the car keys from the shelf and put on your shoes. When Gator comes downstairs, he looks confused.

"So you've always been able to get dressed faster or is this a one-time thing?" Gator comments, searching the shelves for the keys and even checking under his caps.

"Is that what you're looking for?" You twirl the keys on your finger, then close your fist around them when he reaches for them. "Nope, I'm driving today."

"Alright. But something's definitely off." You leave the house, and Gator, like a true gentleman, opens the door for you. You sit proudly in the driver's seat, waiting for Gator. You want to laugh because it's so absurd, but you hold it together, and with a serious face, you turn to Gator.

"Don't forget to buckle up, princess." You cough into your fist, hiding a smile.

"First you steal my keys, and now my lines? Am I even needed here?" Gator looks even more bewildered, but he fastens his seatbelt, and you start the car. Gator turns on the radio, and you chat about something unimportant. When his guard is down again, you make your next move. You pretend to switch the radio station, then place your hand on his thigh near the knee.

"So what did he say?" You ask in a completely nonchalant voice, continuing the conversation.

"And then he says... Damn, I've completely stopped understanding anything!"

"What are you talking about?" You slow down at a traffic light and look at Gator, batting your eyelashes.

"All of this... This!" He makes a vague gesture in the air and moves his leg, nodding toward your hand.

"What, you don't like it?" You slide your hand along the inside of his thigh, moving higher until he stops your hand. "You wanted it yesterday."

"Not here!"

"We already had sex in the car before." You remind him with a chuckle.

"But that was on an empty parking lot, at night, not in broad daylight near a shopping mall with crowds of families with kids!" Now the sheriff in him has kicked in.

"Okay, okay, I keep my hands to myself. In crowded places." You remove your hand, giving his thigh one last pat. Of course, you weren't actually going to do anything. At least, not now. And you can't wait to get home to continue your little game.

But Gator, as it seems, is already melting. Every time your fingers linger on his palm a moment longer than necessary, when you hand him a chocolate bar, or when his shoulder brushes yours in a narrow aisle, he swallows and looks away. His usually confident, calm demeanor gives way to a slight awkwardness. There he is, studying a yogurt label too intently, though he's clearly not reading a single word. You hand him some bread, and he follows your hand, leaning forward, inhaling the scent of fresh pastry. Then he pauses for a moment, and you feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. He silently places the bread in the basket.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" He asks, struggling to keep his tone indifferent, but you can see how genuinely pleased he is, even if he doesn't know exactly why. Gator shoves his hand into his jacket pocket. He's anticipating...

"Maybe." You shrug and continue walking down the aisles. You're looking at the cookie shelves when you feel him creep up behind you to kiss the back of your head, then rest his chin on your crown. You raise your hand to stroke his cheek. Gator loves your hands. And now he reflexively tilts his head, pressing his cheek into your palm, and closes his eyes. Just for a moment. That's enough for you to understand that he's allowing himself to be vulnerable.

Actually, Gator's tactility was a revelation to you.

It's his language when words seem unnecessary. He can be silent all evening, but his fingers, threading through your hair, or his knee, accidentally pressing against yours under the table, will tell you more than any words.

And the most dangerous part is that he doesn't realize how transparent he is. His habit of slightly tilting his head when you touch his chin, guiding your fingers to slide to his neck – this isn't a game for him. It's pure truth that he doesn't know how to hide.

It's his confession: three thousand "I love you"s per square centimeter.

He treats you like something incredibly precious. He carries the heavy bags to the car and only lets you open the trunk. You even forget that you wanted to drive, but you hand him the keys when you get into the passenger seat without any objection.

At home, Gator continues to follow you everywhere, asking for affection. He slips into the room while you're changing into your home clothes and pulls you onto the bed so you're on top of him.

"Gator, dinner first." You kiss him, and he doesn't want to break the kiss, so he follows you when you stand up. He smiles at you, kisses your knuckles while you stand between his legs. Gator waits, he's incredibly patient. He'll wait as long as you want, because for him, every touch from you is already a promise fulfilled in the future.

"Whatever you say, baby. I'll roast the meat, okay?"

"Yeah. I'll chop the vegetables."

You head to the kitchen and you two work smoothly as a team. He sharpens the knives while you wash the vegetables to cook them for the side dish. You choose the right pan for him, and he passes you the salt and pepper after marinating the meat. You put the vegetables in the oven, and Gator stays to roast the steaks while you take care of other things around the house: dusting, gathering dirty laundry to start a load, wiping smudged mirrors.

When you're done, you decide to catch Gator off guard one more time.

You quietly approach from behind, hoping he won't hear you coming, because you're more cautious than a tigress in ambush. At first, you just want to slap his butt, but then you change your mind, wanting to play for high stakes.

"Well, what do we have here that's so tasty?.." You whisper passionately. Gator opens his mouth, probably about to boast about how well he's cooking the steaks, and at that moment you wrap your arms around his ass and squeeze, just like he does when you're washing dishes or cooking. "I bet this is the finest ass in all of Dakota, am I right?" You have to stand on your tiptoes to speak directly into his ear, and you tease him by running your nose along the curve of his neck. He swallows hard and holds his breath for a second, and you'd swear you felt him shiver from the wave of goosebumps.

"What are you..." He trails off and lowers his head slightly to hide the blush creeping up. You manage to make him blush quite often, even from the simplest and sweetest compliments. And you squeeze him a couple more times, then wrap your arms around his waist, swaying from side to side.

"Cat got your tongue, Tillman?" You smirk. "It really does look appetizing. And I'm not talking about the steaks." You quickly kiss his jaw and walk away. And if you had looked down just a little, you would have seen that he had a boner.

Gator likes to play like this sometimes, breaking up the routine with simmering desire, stoking the interest so you can love each other until your knees tremble and he's in that pleasant state of exhaustion, then fall asleep happily, with tangled limbs, breathing steadily into your collarbone where he's left his marks.

All of this is his way of showing you how much he needs you.

It takes Gator a few minutes to calm down and start setting the table. His father would look at him like he was worthless if he knew his son was doing "woman's work". But Gator doesn't care, because he can cook and set the table for you. You split the household chores, because you both work and get equally tired. It's fair. It's convenient. That's what a family does.

You two sit down to dinner, and you occasionally tease Gator, touching his ankles under the table to make him smile from the tickling, until he traps your leg between his, and you both laugh.

Half an hour later, you're in the living room on the couch, watching some movie that's playing on TV. A bottle of beer, covered in condensation, pleasantly cools your insides after the hearty dinner, and the bubbles slowly go to your head. Gator sits on the edge of the couch while you lie sprawled across the rest of it. You finish your beer and set the bottle on the coffee table.

The alcohol has emboldened you a little. You've been playing pretend all day and have settled into the role well. Dominant, commanding, in charge. Warmth spreads through your body. You glance at Gator: he's sitting with one leg tucked under him, and his profile is clearly outlined in the dim light of the TV.

Relaxed. Soft. Yours.

Suddenly, you kick him in the thigh with your toe, lazily, without warning. You didn't mean for it to be rough, you just miscalculated the force and straightened your leg too abruptly. Your heel digs into the bony prominence of his hip, and you immediately realize – that's too much.

Gator flinches. His face twists in unexpected pain for a moment, which he quickly hides by clenching his teeth, but you notice. How he freezes, waiting for something else to happen, how his shoulders tense, how his palm reflexively presses to the spot where the impact has been, and he rubs the bruised area, looking at you from under his brows with a questioning look.

Something warm, a familiar apology, gets stuck in your throat. But for some reason, you don't let yourself say it. Instead, you just pull your leg back, and your gaze darts back to the TV screen. Your face remains impassive, and you remember what you originally wanted to ask.

"Bring me one more beer."

"Yeah, sure." His Adam's apple bobs. Gator rubs his side again as he stands up, thinking you can't see, and his movements are slower than usual. He returns a minute later with one bottle. Not two. He walks around the couch to approach you from the other side and hands you the open bottle. Always polite and courteous. You know how much he loves to please you, even at his own expense, which you try not to allow.

You sit up, pulling him closer, gripping the collar of his t-shirt in your fist. He's pliable under your touch, but he neither leans into you, nor pulls away. You fool him and don't kiss him. You just lick his dry lips and let go.

"Good boy." You take a sip.

Gator sits back down, but can't last more than ten minutes before he stands up.

"Where are you going?" You ask, tilting your head.

"Going to take a shower, I guess." He replies without even turning around.

Gator goes into the bathroom and leans his back against the door. This is stupid. All of this is stupid.

But why does it bother him so much?

And a voice in his head answers in his father's voice: "Because you're a wuss and you let her do whatever she wants with you, and then you whine. It's your own fault.

Your own.

Gator steps under the cold shower, hoping it will wash away the anxiety, but it only surges stronger, and a hundred more questions race through his mind that he can't find answers to.

You didn't do it on purpose, right? But then why didn't you apologise? You always apologise. He always apologises. Why did you play cat and mouse with him all day? Just teasing for laughs? It's not funny to him.

Water streams down his face, mixing with what he doesn't want to admit. He's not crying. It's just... wet.

A door click pulls him from his thoughts. You playfully tap your fingers on the frosted glass of the shower door and open it, but Gator slams it shut again, holding it in place. The last thing he wants right now is for you to see him like this: vulnerable, pathetic, naked.

"Gator?" You ask, surprised by his reaction.

"Please leave." He doesn't like how his voice trembles, betraying him.

"Are you okay?" The remaining alcohol evaporates in seconds. Is he really this shaken because of you?

"Just get out, okay?" Gator sits down. For a few minutes, he just watches the water swirl down the drain.

He comes out of the bathroom. The TV is no longer flickering. You're gone too. You're waiting for him in the bedroom, but he deliberately avoids you. Gator sits on the couch, pulling his knees up to hug them. He hasn't even turned on the light. And it reminds him of those evenings when his father was displeased with something and sent Gator to his room to think about his behavior. Maybe he should think now too.

You quietly walk across the soft carpet, stopping in the doorway. You look at him. The light from the hallway falls on the couch, illuminating his figure: huddled, almost childlike in this pose of hugged knees. Your heart clenches at the sight you never wanted to see. You dare to come closer, sitting half a meter away from him, watching carefully so as not to miss permission to speak or touch. But he doesn't move, as if frozen in this pose of despair and confusion.

"I didn't mean to..." You say quietly, and it seems like the darkness swallows the words before they can reach Gator.

"I didn't like it." Gator looks up at you, and his eyes are glistening with unshed tears. "I thought it was going to be like usual. You know, our foreplay. But when you... nudged me, and then you... my whole mood just..." He curls up even more, as if afraid to admit that something could hurt him, because he was taught to be thick-skinned, unapproachable. And now he thinks he looks like he's upset over a game. But you always had a rule: it should be enjoyable for both.

"I wanted to joke, I thought it'd be funny, you know, to mirror how you treat me sometimes." You want to touch him, stroke his back, take his hands in yours, comfort him, but he probably doesn't want that.

"You always tell me: let's talk about it. If I hurt you, tell me, don't try to teach me a lesson." Gator thinks something's wrong with him, that you decided to show it in such a way, that you can do everything he can yourself, so what's the point of him? Why do you even need him? He's told you many times that he's happy in calm relationships with you, without dominance games, without tests of patience and strength. You're the quiet harbour he comes to after rough work, where he might get beaten, where his father yells at him. He comes to you for tenderness and understanding. And neither of you two lashes out, you don't take your anger out on each other. Just a warm reheated dinner, a shared shower without hints because you're both too tired but want to be together, a bed with a few chocolate cookie crumbs under you, and lazy kisses that feel like mere lip touches.

"You didn't do anything wrong." You lean in to look into his eyes, and he sees a plea in them. "Everything was going well at first, right?"

"Yeah. Everything was good until dinner. I thought you were..." Gator pauses, as if embarrassed to say he was naively expecting something from you. "I don't know, preparing a surprise for me or something nice, I don't know..." He shakes his head and looks away.

"Gator, I'm sorry." You slide your hand across the couch, and your palm touches his pinky.

"It reminded me of my father. The way he always..." Gator squeezes his eyes shut and presses his lips together. "I wouldn't want that to happen between us. I don't want to doubt you or your feelings for me, because too often everything around me turned out to be an illusion."

"We'll do better. I'll... I'll be better." You wipe a tear from your cheek, trying to smile at Gator. "From now on, I'll make sure we're both enjoying and understanding each other. No matter what it's about."

"I don't want to constantly live in anticipation of a pitfall either. You know I trust you completely. And I... I forgive you, if I haven't said that yet. It wasn't so much the physical pain as it was a trigger for the anxiety and everything else." He looks at you, and you're about to cry. He can't stand your tears. "Don't cry, come here." Gator lowers his legs, and you climb into his lap.

You just sit there like that, hugging, and he lets you stay in his arms as long as you need, so you soak up his warmth and tenderness.

Gator thought that some things might change with you moving in with him, but he definitely didn't expect it to affect him in any way.

Even before you fully moved in, his already small apartment had started to rapidly fill up with your things. At first, it was just the basics: shampoo and hair conditioner on the shower shelf, a couple of books you brought so you wouldn't get bored if he got called into the police station, an old lipstick and a powder compact so you could quickly fix your makeup if needed.

But now you live with him, and your presence is everywhere.

It becomes noticeable from the very first week.

Morning. It's almost strange that you're working today while he is on shift at night. Gator stands in the middle of the bathroom, holding a bottle of shampoo that smells like ripe raspberries, and stares at his old shampoo with its half-peeled-off "2-in-1 for hair and body" label, feeling a little betrayed. It has been pushed to the farthest corner of the shelf, like some outcast in a kingdom of beauty, a criminal exiled for being almighty. Well, what's wrong with that? The last thing he needs is to buy a bunch of separate products for every part of his body. He is perfectly fine with slathering that stuff on, rinsing it off, and smelling like menthol and eucalyptus until his next shower. Simple, no fuss.

He steps out of the bathroom and notices your slippers in the hallway. They're woolly and pink, looking like giant paws. He tried to stick his foot into them once, thinking they were big enough, while you squealed that he'd stretch them out. As you can see, they're perfectly fine. You were rushing, you're always afraid you're running late, and yet you always end up arriving early. You left a little chaos behind, but Gator doesn't mind – he's already made peace with it. He steps over the slippers, then turns around, picks them up, and sets them by the wall so no one stumbles.

The changes in the kitchen have been quite the revelation too. Now he doesn't just make himself coffee in the morning: he asks you what you want to drink. Gator remembers that you always ask for tea. You even placed a tea organizer next to the electric kettle! Where you carefully stashed his lone box of black tea, which has more dust and tea crumbs in it than actual leaves and flowers.

Gator opens the fridge in search of a quick breakfast (he doesn't say that he actually likes the yogurts too, but you notice when they disappear and silently buy a few extra each time) and sees a container with a sticky note attached.

"Some for you too. Eat it before evening. If you lied about liking strawberries, you'll have to like them now. Kiss you."

With you, Gator started eating much better. He never bought fruit for himself, never made salads, and his snacks at work were dried meat and soda. He still remembers how dumbly he stared at you when you shoved a container of food at him to take with him.

Besides, no one had ever cut fruit for him before.

Gator opens the container with sliced strawberries and kiwis inside. He smirks at the thought that it's just like you and him. You're sweet, and everyone loves you, like strawberry. And he's unappealing and an acquired taste, but inside, not so bad. Probably.

Gator is grateful that you don't change things radically, just improve them, leaving what he already had.

You fill all the free space that was actually just empty because Gator had nothing to put there. And honestly, he even felt a little joyless looking at the surfaces and shelves that only held a layer of dust. But that problem is solved. On the sofa lies a glossy magazine, and Gator will definitely investigate what you circled with a marker in the cosmetics section. Your cardigan with golden flower-shaped buttons is draped over the back of a chair. And on the coffee table is a box with a set of hairpins, but only two are left because you have lost the rest.

He won't tell you that one of them is in his uniform pocket.

By the second week, you had finally moved all your things in.

Gator comes home late from work. As usual, he takes a quick shower, and then comes the worst part of the day. Untangling his hair from its styling. And for some reason, in the morning he couldn't get it to lay flat on the first try, so it's horribly stuck together from too much gel, because water got on it while he was washing himself. Gator steps out of the bathroom looking for his comb and, of course, he can't sneak past you.

"What are you doing?" You turn down the TV volume and look at him.

"My comb's gone somewhere." He sees several combs on the dresser, but his isn't there.

"You mean half a comb?"

"I said what I said." Gator snorts, a little irritated, water dripping onto his shoulders. "Wait, you didn't throw it out, did you?" It suddenly dawns on him.

"No, it's in the drawer. Come on." You stand up, and he lets you go first because he likes watching you in that satin set: the top with straps and ruffled shorts. You rummage through the drawer where he keeps his spare razor cartridges and the new deodorant he bought on the BOGO deal. You pull out a comb – a wide-toothed one, with a third of the teeth missing.

"Thanks." Gator replies flatly, but you don't leave. "You can go."

"I want to see what happens next." You say with distrust, but Gator just shrugs. He tries to comb his hair, but it's tangled, with knots even forming in places where the comb snags. It looks like torture. But not for him. For you. "What are you doing!"

Gator flinches at your loud exclamation, which hits his ears. You shout like he's nearly broken federal law. "I almost went deaf. It's your own fault for staying to watch. I thought you were a spectator, not a critic."

"Give it to me. Sit." You pull a stool from the corner for him to sit on. You grab a squeeze tube from the shelf, and Gator tenses up. This is better than scissors, sure, but still...

"What's that for?" He tries to read the label.

"Just hair conditioner, for easy detangling." You take a little in your hand and apply it to his head.

"It's gross, like jelly." Gator sniffs it. "And it smells terrible!"

"Would you rather go bald by ripping your hair out with... that?" You're pointing at his pathetic hair care kit.

"Fine, just do what you gotta do." Your fingers gently massage his scalp, spreading that disgustingly sweet conditioner through his hair. He wants to protest, say he's a cop, not a poodle being groomed before a show, but the words get stuck in his throat because... this feels nice.

Damn. This really feels pleasurable.

You run your fingers through his wet hair, untangling the knots he made himself. Gator closes his eyes, feeling the tension leave his shoulders. When you touch the back of his head, he almost purrs. Almost. He'd never admit it.

"Always start combing from the bottom up. And how many times have I told you that shampoo dries out your hair?" You advise and explain reasonably, without pressure. "We can get you something without such a strong scent."

"I'll think about it..." Gator grumbles, but already knows he'll go to the store with you this weekend and smell everything you shove under his nose until he approves.

"Now you can wask it all off." You wait patiently while Gator washes his hair. And when he reaches for a towel, you hand him something completely different.

"This is a t-shirt." He looks at you with a hint of skepticism. Was just touching his hair enough to drive you crazy?

"No. Well, yes, but that's the point. Terry towels tangle hair, but cotton just absorbs water." You make him bend down and wrap his head in your old pink t-shirt. You bite your lip, stifling a laugh, because Gator looks ridiculous.

"I opened a portal to hell when I let you do this." He hangs his head dejectedly, more theatrically, but still a little offended. You don't even pay attention to his antics, patting his hair dry with the t-shirt again. Before turning on the hairdryer, you grab another product from the shelf and spray it over him without warning. "Chemical attack! I'm in a gas chamber! Exit is blocked..." Gator covers his eyes with his hand and coughs. It smells like meadow flowers and honey. Harmless.

"Oh, Gator, you're so dramatic." You turn on the hairdryer and don't hear him cursing. Honestly, you really like touching his head, especially when his hair is so silky. When you finish drying, you lean down, pressing your face into the top of his head, inhaling the scent.

"What are you plotting now?" Gator fidgets, because everything he's let you do so far is way out of bounds. But he looks in the mirror and sees you hugging him around the neck, your hands on his shoulders, slightly bent, pressed against his back.

"Nothing. I'm done." You shrug and walk out, heading back to the bedroom.

Gator examines himself in the mirror, and giving you your due, he's never looked this good.

So... Domestic.

He walks over to you, and you're sitting at the dressing table on a low pouf, brushing your hair. Gator squats down next to you.

"You didn't comb your hair? I showed you where your comb is." You run the brush through his front strands, and his bangs fall into his eyes. You laugh, and he rests his head on your lap. Complete surrender. You comb his hair, and his arms wrap tightly around your waist. "You smell like me."

"Y'know, maybe it's not so bad."

By the third week of living side by side with you, Gator realized how lucky he was.

He doesn't say it out loud, but he understands that he's ready to take back every word he ever said. He likes this. Being in comfort. Not just surviving, as it was at the ranch. When he lived in his father's house, he wasn't allowed to have excess belongings – only the bare essentials – and it felt more like the army than a home where, it turns out, you can keep fond things and warm memories. When he moved into a separate little house on the same ranch, it got better. Though he had to fix it up himself so the roof wouldn't leak and the wiring wouldn't short. But it was his den, where posters could hang on the walls and he could listen to any music he liked, as loud as he wanted.

And in a world of constant prohibitions and reproaches, you showed him that getting attached to things isn't bad at all: it's actually good to have something you love. Something of your own. Because when he left the ranch, he realized he didn't know how to choose something other than the first thing he grabbed or the cheapest option, how to want something, and most importantly, how to ask for it. He grew up convenient, quiet, obedient. But you started proving to him that he could be selective, picky, have his own opinions, and not be punished or humiliated for it.

Gator started to understand that you wouldn't mock him for never having tried matcha or alternative milk – you'd stop by a café after work and buy him something to try. And iced caramel latte is now his favorite drink there. You wouldn't scold him for picking the same cereal that a five-year-old would choose at the store, because his father ate nothing but oatmeal for breakfast, and the family ate only what he liked.

Gator lived by other people's choices, and sometimes he just didn't have the energy left to make his own, because after a 24-hour shift, he didn't care what movie was on TV. He turned it not just to fall asleep in silence.

And now he falls asleep cuddling and talking to you.

You let him try and make mistakes. And that tells him more about your love than any words ever could, and Gator is glad that you see it too. A couple of days ago, you were putting hand cream on at night, and he just reached out his hand to place it in yours. At first, you didn't understand what he wanted, but when you felt how dry his hands were and how cracked his skin was, you didn't ask questions. You applied some cream and traced each knuckle.

That's how you learned that chamomile and sandalwood appeal to him more than geranium and bergamot. And now that cream lies on his side of the nightstand. There's a lot more stuff there now, actually: a velvet cloth where Gator places his watch and badge so they don't scratch the nightstand; a moisturizer he needs, especially in winter; sometimes a mug of jasmine tea, because you broke him of the habit of drinking coffee at night.

With you, Gator feels significant, not like a hollow space. At first, he thought it was silly when you asked him about the color of the blanket to cover the sofa in the living room or the kitchen towels you wanted to buy, or any other trifling question you could have answered yourself but chose to consult him on.

That's how you show him that he matters.

And he tries to pay you back in kind.

Tonight is just for the two of you. Gator booked a table at some fancy restaurant, having researched options in advance to make sure you'd like it. He's trying to get used to styling his hair without gel, so it's soft and pliable with a faint hint of mint and lemongrass, because that way you can run your hands through it and ruffle it. He put on a crisp white shirt, and you helped him roll up the sleeves.

Gator waits for you. He peers into the bedroom, and you're almost ready too, finishing your styling. You're sitting, twisted at an awkward angle to see what you're doing in the mirror. Your hair is already curled into perfect ringlets in the front and on the sides, but the back is still straight.

You notice him. "I'll be done soon, the mirror isn't helping me synchronize my hair and the styler." You joke.

"Give it to me." Gator takes it from your hands.

"Do you know how to use it?" You ask, and Gator can't help but admire how your eyes sparkle, and it's not from the shimmery eyeshadow.

"I know how to follow orders. If you guide me, maybe something will come out of it."

"Okay." You turn your back to him. "Basically, it does everything itself: just separate a strand, turn it on, bring it close. It'll curl it."

"Sounds simple, like even I could do it." Gator smiles and does exactly what you say. He separates a strand, turns on the styler, and brings it to your hair. The hair wraps around the heated cylinder, and Gator waits a few seconds. "Then what?"

"There's a button, cool it with cold air, then turn it off." You explain, feeling his breath on the top of your head. Gator switches the air to cold, then turns off the styler. A perfect curl. He repeats it three more times before proudly declaring that it's done.

"Now spray it with hairspray." You grab it and hand to Gator.

"Just take it and...?" Gator makes a motion with his hand but doesn't press the nozzle.

"Yes, like when I sprayed the heat protection on you in the bathroom."

"Oh, well, I can do that." He sprays a cloud of hairspray over you, then puts everything aside and rests his hands on your shoulders, squeezing gently. Gator kisses the back of your head. "You look pretty. Very-very pretty."

"So do you." You reply with a smile, and he leans back a little to look at you.

"Did the hairspray get into your eyes?" Gator laughs, but you're actually serious.

"Not at all." You stand up and reach your arms out to him. He doesn't want to ruin your makeup, so he just hugs you, but you press your cheek against his. "Thank you, Gator."

"Anytime, baby." Gator looks at you, and one side of his face is shimmering from your highlighter.

"Now you're glowing too." You try to wipe the glitter off his cheek, and he covers your hands with his.

"That's all because of you." Gator leans in and presses his forehead against yours, his nose barely touching yours. "Come on, we don't want to be late, right?"

You nod, and he takes your hand, certain that it couldn't get any better.

He thought moving in was about letting you into his life.

But it turns out that he's been living in yours for a long time.

Chapter 3. A pinky promise.

Roy always says that people get used to the good things very fast, and Gator should not give in to that desire.

But so far, Gator is only used to bad things.

Saturday morning passes... Normally. Almost. Gator sits across from his father and feels the air electrified by this theatrical calmness. Roy is in a white linen shirt with rolled-up sleeves – he does that when he wants to seem simpler, closer to the people, showing that he works tirelessly, too.

"Just imagine, eight years ago this district was drowning in lawlessness. Drunken brawls, fights, thefts. And now? Now people greet me on the streets. They shake my hand, tip their hats, they respect me." Roy says proudly.

Linda nods frequently, adjusting the napkin on the table under the plate. Her hand trembles slightly as she reaches for the coffee pot to pour Roy more coffee, and Gator notices it, notices how he catches her gaze, and for a second, a frightening shadow flickers in his eyes. But only for a second. Then he takes her hand, kisses her knuckles, squeezes it and places it back on the table. Linda forces a smile in return. Gator isn't always a witness to how Roy treats Linda, but he sees how she flinches at every rustle. She hates what she's become over the years of marriage. She finds Roy repulsive, his rules, this life she spends trapped in a kitchen whose walls are soaked with grease, and a bedroom that muffles any cry for help.

Gator hopes he at least makes things a little easier. But so far, for Roy, he's only a constant disappointment, a dead branch on the family tree.

"God sees diligence." Roy continues. "He rewards those who take responsibility. For family. For people. For an entire district." He smiles, and his smile is wide, white-toothed, but Gator knows it too well. It's the smile of a man used to being obeyed. He says he was chosen, that he didn't seek power. It came to the right hands on its own. Because order is always needed, and a man is needed to maintain that order. And that man is he.

Gator chews his scrambled eggs in silence. The eggs are fried perfectly today, as always. Linda made sure, because badly cooked food can ruin Roy's good mood in an instant. It's too fragile. Like everything in this house.

"Yes, order is needed," Gator forces out when the pause becomes too long.

Roy nods approvingly. "You know, you're better than a lot of boys, Gator. You don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong, you speak only when asked. The neighbor's brats just run around doing nothing and yelling." Roy suddenly leans across the table and claps his son on the shoulder. Gator feels the weight. This gesture is meant to be warm, fatherly, but inside, everything tightens because Gator knows: this approval is a reward for silence.

Roy plays the part of a model family man, hiding his despotic side, and everyone else can only guess what goes on in the house and never leaves the ranch.

Then Roy goes to the stables to look at the new horses and maybe ride around the area, check on those who've crossed the line of decency. Today, Roy will take it out on someone else.

Linda clears the table and starts preparing dinner. Gator doesn't like sitting in his room because it feels like he's being punished and locked up, so he sits in the kitchen doing homework at the table where Linda is chopping vegetables for soup nearby. She takes an apple from the basket, slices it, and slides the bowl toward Gator, then kisses the top of his head.

"Are you getting everything done?" She asks, nervously stirring the sauce with a small, nervous motion.

"Yeah, math is easy! I'm almost done." Gator finishes the last few equations and closes his notebook.

"Here, take the scraps to the animals." Linda hands him a metal bowl with vegetable peels and greens tops. Gator takes it and steps outside, heading toward the goat pen because it's the closest. He opens the gate and walks in, closing it behind him so the animals don't escape. Gator walks toward the kids, which are no longer tiny. Soon they'll need to be weaned from their mothers. Their horns have strengthened, and they play, butting heads with each other or against the fence. Gator gets too close, and it was probably a mistake to interfere in their game uninvited. One of the kids, the boldest and most spirited, freezes, sniffing the bowl in Gator's hands. He holds out a handful of scraps, and the animal takes a step forward, but instead of taking the treat, suddenly lowers its head.

Gator notices the movement too late.

He falls to the ground, feeling a sharp pain in his side. The bowl lies nearby, and Gator, covered in dirt and potato peels, watches the sky spin above him as he tries to gather himself.

"What are you doing sprawled out here?" A voice comes from above. Gator turns his head and sees his father sitting on horseback, looking down at him. With contempt. "Lying in the mud like a worthless pup."

"Mom told me to take the scraps," Gator says, struggling to push himself up on his elbows. A red stain spreads across his shirt.

"Mom told you. Well, run along to your equally good-for-nothing mommy." Roy sneers with sarcasm: he's known since Gator was born that there's nothing of the Tillmans in him."You couldn't even fight back, and it's not a human, just a beast. I praised you this morning, and it's clearly affecting you negatively. I said get up."

"I... I..." Gator holds on with all his might not to cry in front of his father.

"Don't go outside the ranch today. The last thing I need is you humiliating yourself in front of the neighbors in the first puddle you find. Go." Roy tugs the reins, and the horse snorts before heading toward the field.

Gator gets up. It doesn't actually hurt that much, he was just scared. He brushes off the dirt, picks up the bowl, and heads home. He feels ashamed for adding to Linda's worries and for making his father angry. Standing in front of the door, Gator first examines the wound himself, assessing how bad it is. A shallow scratch, bleeding a little.

"Mom?" Gator calls out loud enough for Linda to hear, but not sharply so as not to startle her. He walks toward the kitchen. She's already turned off the soup on the stove and gotten out the first-aid kit because she saw what happened through the window. A frown lies between her brows, but Gator can't tell if it's stern or pitying. Gator puts the bowl in the sink and walks over to his mother, head lowered, the way he usually approaches his father. "I'm sorry."

"Show me." Gator lifts the hem of his shirt. Linda silently cleans it and puts on a plaster. She sees how Gator has wilted and become quiet. She takes his hands in hers and squeezes them. She understands Roy's anger and knows what awaits them when he returns and reproach her and Gator at lunch. Linda hopes with all her heart that he won't turn out like his father. Gator is too soft to give harsh orders and solve everything with violence the way Roy does. And even if Roy manages to drill Gator into the man he wants him to be, Gator will never be able to take Roy's place. Roy simply won't allow it. "This isn't your fault, sweetheart."

Gator hugs her around the neck, and for a while they sit like that.

"It'll heal, and I'll wash and mend the shirt. Go change. And try to stay out of your father's way today." Linda strokes Gator's cheek and returns to cooking.

Gator goes to his room and changes into a clean shirt and shorts. He decides to go outside and wander through the wasteland behind the barn, where the tall grass will hide him from everyone. He flattens the grass with his foot and sits down with his back against a pile of old boards eaten by wood-boring beetles.

He pulls his knees up and rests his head on his arms, hiding his face. The wound throbs with a dull ache deep inside. Gator sobs, because finally he can be alone, and no one will judge him except himself. Suddenly he hears someone making their way through the grass on the other side of the pile of boards.

"Gator! Where are you?" You search for him, pushing through the grass, and when you finally find him, he doesn't even lift his head to look at you. "There you are!"

"How did you find me?" He mutters, his voice trembling a little because Gator can't calm down that fast.

"I was waiting for you to come out of the house. I'm bored on my own." You notice, of course, that something's wrong with him. "Are you crying or what?" You never stood on ceremony and always asked directly, because you knew how he got lost amid poorly phrased requests and questions, expecting a trick or mockery.

"No." His voice still muffled from speaking into his knees.

You sigh, walk over to him, and crouch down to look at his face, sticking your head under the bend of his elbow. "Will you tell me?" But this doesn't cheer Gator up, and he turns away, curling into a ball. "Well, as you like." You shrug, and Gator hears the grass rustle again. He glances out of the corner of his eye, but you're not leaving. You sit a little further away and fuss with the grass, not looking at him, and it gets a little easier for him to start talking.

"Father said I'm a disgrace for our family." Gator begins, and you don't move: it seems to him that you're not listening, continuing with your own business. "Today he saw again how weak I am. He reminds me of it often, I already know it without him." The confession comes out on its own, everything that's built up spilling over. "Maybe I could have fought that goat off. I didn't have time, I didn't expect it. I'm pathetic."

"You're not pathetic, Gator." You answer. "You can learn to take a hit, but your father can hardly be fixed." That thought makes Gator pause.

"I'm tired of every step I take being wrong in advance. Even when I do what he wants." Gator sighs heavily.

"Everything can still change." You finally turn and look at him, and he no longer hides, though his eyes are a little red and his lashes are clumped with tears.

"Do you really think so?" Gator asks, because for him, all the days blur into one long nightmare that sometimes mixes with colourful dreams.

"Everything changes gradually. It's just not always noticeable right away." You come closer and sit next to him, reaching out your hand.

Gator places his palm on yours. "Us too?"

"Us too." You nod. You slip a ring made from a clover flower onto his finger. It's a little small. He looks at the spot where you were sitting, and there are many plucked blades of grass lying there, because you couldn't get it right on the first try. That's what he likes about you: you don't give up, you keep going until you get it right. He looks into your eyes, then at his hand. Gator smiles. And you laugh too, covering your mouth with your hands, and on each of your fingers there's one flower. "I don't want this to change."

"What?" You brush the hair from your eyes, tousled by the wind.

"Our friendship. I want to have our friendship no matter what."

"No matter what. Always." You hold out your pinky to seal the promise, and the clover flowers on your fingers catch on each other. You lean in, and at first, he doesn't understand what you're doing. You're dangerously close. But you just touch your forehead to his temple and nudge him jokingly.

"Hey, I've had enough for one day, have mercy." Gator smiles crookedly.

You don't answer, just pull him closer with one arm around his shoulder and hug him, because you know he needs it. And Gator flinches a little when you squeeze him, pressing too hard on the bandage. He immediately checks to see if the wound has started bleeding again. You check too, though there's not much to see since it's all covered with the plaster.

"Actually, scars are cool. I heard somewhere that scars make a man. But I think it applies to anyone. They are almost like memories." Another wonderful trait of yours – you turn bad things into good ones. Maybe that's why you and Gator get along so well, because you have some optimism he lacks, and he has the seriousness that he teaches you when you need it. "Come on, the wild strawberries in the lowlands are ripe." You stand up, and Gator hesitates for a moment before following you.

Today he'll trust your optimism.

Taglist: @dreamerjj

More than anything, Trinity hates making mistakes.

Maybe in the past, it was just a form of perfectionism, a way to prove to herself and others that she was worth something. That viscous, sticky feeling that creeps into her mind and grows like a tumor in her brain when she realizes she didn't consider a variable, underestimated a factor, or overestimated a person she decided to rely on. And this applied to everything: a word accidentally said in the wrong tone in a conversation with Whitaker or Javadi, an incorrectly chosen route to the clinic when she wanted to avoid traffic but ended up being late anyway, a person she clearly shouldn't have fallen for because they, as it turned out, perceived their relationship completely differently. All of this meant she'd better bite off her tongue than admit to a miscalculation or an omission. At work, this turned into sleepless nights when she double-checks reports and analyses because her anxious Cancer-ascendant intuition suggests something's wrong, but logic insists everything is fine.

Making a mistake for Trinity means losing to herself, and she has no intention of accepting this defeat.

The only choice she was certain about was choosing pediatrics over surgery, which she had originally wanted.

Every day, walking into the hospital, she feels her habit of controlling everything around her stop being tyranny and become a kind of salvation. She can tell from parents' behavior that they're not telling the whole truth about symptoms, or if a patient is hiding that something is not okay. She can hear the faintest wheeze in a child's lungs that might seem normal to other doctors and conducts an additional examination to rule out worst-case scenarios.

Pediatrics took her fear of error and turned it into uncompromising dedication to her work. It unlocked her potential and best qualities: sensitivity, attentiveness, understanding. She knew from her own experience what children could go through and how important it was to be perceptive enough to spot signs in time to prevent something scarier than the illness itself.

Here Trinity realized she was exactly where she belonged.

So when she was invited to speak at the upcoming conference, she agreed without hesitation – it was a perfect opportunity to demonstrate her capabilities and present her research. And now she had arrived in Paris with the other doctors. Of course, Paris greeted her in all its splendor and perfection, but she had no time to enjoy exquisite pastries and cuisine or sightseeing. Instead, Trinity re-read and revised her speech over and over, trying to find flaws that didn't exist. Everyone kept encouraging her, assuring her that everything would go well, but Trinity couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if someone found an inaccuracy in her statistics and data, or asked a question she wouldn't able to answer.

She couldn't freeze on stage.

The conference started in just three hours, but Trinity already needed to get ready and head downstairs to go with the others to the convention hall. Besides, she was told that it was better to arrive early to meet the interpreter and find common ground, because the conference would be held in French.

Trinity and her team arrived at the conference venue. They were given badges and programs so they could check the order of presentations and were shown into the hall where they would give their speeches. Trinity stood waiting for the organiser to come over and introduce her to the interpreter.

"Dr. Santos!" A voice calls out.

Trinity turns and sees the organiser hurrying toward her, followed by a girl – presumably the interpreter. She is about Trinity's age, with a sharp gaze and a confident stride, like someone who needs to be imperceptible and indispensable at the same time.

"Allow me to introduce your interpreter. She's been working as a conference interpreter for six years and specializes in pediatrics."

"Nice to meet you." You extend your hand and shake Trinity's, noticing it's slightly damp. Trinity can't wipe her palms on her new trousers or blazer without losing face with one awkward gesture.

The organiser leaves you alone.

"So, Dr. Santos, I've reviewed your abstracts. It's an excellent work!" You start the conversation, and Trinity raises her eyebrows in surprise. "I'd like to go over a few terminology clarifications in the biomarkers section. I'm not changing anything, but we need to make sure the French audience hears exactly what you mean."

"Yes, of course, let me explain..." You and Trinity go over debatable points and highlight especially important moments that should be emphasised.

"I think it's better to translate in blocks rather than phrases so the narrative thread doesn't get lost. So speak one paragraph at a time until you've completed a thought. You'll have time to prepare the next part while I translate." You suggest.

"Yes, that's fine. I'll speak not too fast and with pauses in the right places so you know where to place accents." Trinity is nervous and crumples the edge of the paper.

"I think we're ready." You smile at her, and Trinity realises you've noticed her anxiety. "And don't worry, everything will go wonderfully."

"Thank you." Trinity nods at you, watching as you head backstage, waiting for the presentation to begin.

The hall quickly fills with people, and Trinity can hear the hum of English and French mixing into a single stream of noise. In the front rows sit doctors and professors, further back researchers and medical students. Trinity remembers being a student like that once, somehow convinced she would be a surgeon. And maybe today's presentation would help someone find their true calling.

Trinity hears herself being introduced, and she steps onto the stage, clutching her folder. Spotlight hits her face, and she sees hundreds of eyes turned toward her. But Trinity catches your gaze as you approach and stand beside her. You give her an almost unnoticeable nod, and Trinity suddenly feels calmer for some reason.

She begins to speak. Her presentation is dedicated to the latest research on cross-allergies. She talks about various allergic reactions, Quincke's edema, skin rashes, and itching in the oral cavity.

You translate. French flows beautifully but sounds firm at the same time, and Trinity, even without knowing the language, understands that you're correctly placing intonation, mirroring her manner of speaking.

Then Trinity presents statistics and clinical cases, concluding the presentation with a speech about future prospects and the creation of new-generation medications. She answers questions from the audience, which you translate as clearly and thoroughly as possible so Trinity can orient herself.

You both enjoy your tandem – this ideal balance.

The audience applauds as Trinity finishes her presentation. She goes backstage and slips quietly into the hall, but can no longer find you.

You step outside for some fresh air because your brain is buzzing with tension. But you're pleased with yourself, because you carry double responsibility: not to disgrace yourself and not to let down the person you're translating for. And when someone asks questions, the entire communication rests on you, and your job is to make sure it goes smoothly.

When you notice crowds of people appearing in the hallways, you realise the conference is over and everyone is heading to the banquet hall. You want to leave, but you're not one to turn down free snacks, so you follow a group of guests inside.

You stand in a corner, having previously taken a glass of a drink, which is offered by the waiters. You are used to merging with the environment, giving a voice when the situation requires it, probably it is some part of the professional deformation, and there are no people here with whom you can make small talk.

Suddenly you notice Trinity, standing alone as well. You decide to observe her for a while. Honestly, you even like her. Trinity is beautiful, in her own way, with all her sternness – not seeking attention but demanding respect. Her trousers have perfectly pressed creases, and her blazer has not a single wrinkle, although you saw her pull herself up when she tried to put her hands in the pockets out of habit. But behind that strict facade lies softness. You could tell from how tenderly she spoke about the children she'd correctly diagnosed and helped.

And she, like you, is constantly on the periphery.

Several doctors talk to her, but she doesn't seem particularly interested. Her gaze carries fatigue, more from the weight of responsibility than from the speech itself. Trinity replies briefly and is left alone again. She sets her half-empty glass on the edge of a table and walks away behind columns.

You follow her but lose sight of her. You keep turning around, scanning the crowd, and completely fail to notice someone standing in front of you.

"Oh." You look up. And there she is – Trinity. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Her expression softens. "Are you looking for someone?"

"No." And you find the absurdity of the situation a little funny. "Just observing."

"Observing whom?" Trinity leans against a column and smirks slyly.

"Just... people." You shrug, pretending nonchalance.

"And am I one of your subjects of observation?" She laughs at your flustered expression. "You're a much better interpreter than a elusive observer."

"Sorry, I don't know anyone here except the organiser and you." You step closer to Trinity so people behind you can pass by the exit.

"I'm joking. But you are a real professional at what you do. Not a single stumble, and you seem so confident." Trinity coughs into her fist, as if unaccustomed to giving compliments, which adds sincerity to her words. "You don't just translate mechanically, you feel it, I don't know how to describe it."

"Thank you. Your research is groundbreaking. I can't estimate it as a professional, of course, but as a patient, I think it's really important."

Trinity usually says "I know" or nothing at all, but you sound so warm, as if you genuinely want to talk to her longer, steering the conversation from professional to something more personal. "Actually, it's a more common problem than many people think."

"As a child, doctors couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. They'd give me pills and send me home, and I'd keep itching for days... Sorry, I guess a rash isn't the best topic for discussion." You feel awkward.

"No, not at all. I'm glad my research turned out to be useful for someone." Trinity looks past you. "I think someone's heading our way, and I'm really not in the mood for an intellectual conversation. Would you mind leaving?"

"I was just about to do it." You both laugh and walk out of the building. Evening Paris hits you in the face: warm wind, the noise of passing cars, the smell of roasted chestnuts, and the light of streetlamps reflected in shimmering flares on the wet pavement. It has rained recently, and the air has become clean and humid.

"Where we going?" You ask.

"Actually, this is my first time here. I only know that the Eiffel Tower lights up at night."

"Seriously? You haven't been anywhere yet?"

"Well, I came here for work and spent the whole day preparing." A defensive note sounds into Trinity's voice.

"Then I'll show you the most beautiful places." You walk down the steps, and her shoulder brushes yours a couple of times.

"You must be a local, since you know everything so well." Trinity assumes.

"No, I'm from Pittsburgh too." You say, and Trinity is momentarily confused, but then realises that she was introduced at the conference. "I'm where the job is, here and there."

The showcases glow with warm yellow light, fragments of conversation and music drift from open windows, and in the park across the street, someone is playing the saxophone. Trinity slowly relaxes. She no longer adjusts her collar or straightens her blazer. Her shoulders drop, and she even allows herself to shove her hands into her trouser pockets.

Apparently, she's comfortable enough with you to not be extremely perfect.

But then two guys appear ahead. They walk toward you, too arrogantly and spreading wide, occupying almost the entire narrow street. One is wearing a tracksuit with a hood pulled over his head, the other – a leather jacket with worn elbows, holding a beer bottle. They're talking loudly in French. When they draw level with you, the one in the jacket suddenly steps sideways, blocking your path. Trinity bumps into you, staggering slightly, and stays there, pressed against your back.

"Careful, mademoiselle. Is Paris making your head spin so much you can't stand?" He speaks English with a heavy accent.

You straighten up, shielding Trinity with your shoulder, and your hand finds hers. You answer him in French, sharply and clearly. You frown, eyes narrowed.

The guys exchange glances; one mutters something and jerks his head, pulling the other back. They glance at you a few times, then walk away, and you continue on.

"I don't know what you said to them, but it was impressive." Trinity says, still not letting go of your hand.

"Such types pop up sometimes, you have to know how to put them in their place. They even apologized at the end." You smirk.

Your steps slow down on their own, as if you don't want the night to end. You reach a small square right in front of the Eiffel Tower. It looks enormous, so massive and delicate. Trinity gazes up, throwing back her head. But you've already seen the tower a hundred times, so you look at Trinity, at her clear profile, illuminated by honey-colored light. She suddenly turns to you and smiles so brightly that your pulse quickens.

"Just a few more minutes and..." All the words escape you.

At that moment, the tower lights up, and thousands of sparks flicker on all at once. It was truly an unforgettable sight: the entire city seemed to hold its breath. And when the last light at the top came on, the whole tower blazed, as if for a single spectator.

Trinity lowers her head and squeezes your hand tighter. You look at her, trying to read her thoughts.

Is she thinking about the same thing you are?

"You know, there's something here that deserves more attention." She leans in, and you meet her halfway. Your lips meet in a gentle kiss. Everything around becomes just background: the tower, people, lights. You draw back to take a breath, then pull Trinity closer again by the lapel of her blazer.

She promises herself to remember this night...

Months pass, and everything goes on as usual. After that night, nothing changed: it didn't go further than kisses, and after the walk you went back to your hotel rooms. Trinity didn't know if you'd return to Pittsburgh, but she hoped to see you in the hallway before the flight. But you weren't there, nor in the airport waiting area.

As they say, Paris is the city of love?

Apparently, love doesn't exist outside its borders.

Trinity does her morning rounds, asking patients about their well-being and any new symptoms. Chaos reigns in the corridor: people are being assigned to rooms, doctors walk back and forth with medications, and someone is being rushed to the ICU. Trinity steps into the corridor because she can see she's needed. She pulls on gloves and listens to the description of the problem: allergic reaction, Quincke's edema, breathing difficulties. And when Trinity finally looks at the gurney.

She sees you.

"Epinephrine intramuscularly!" Trinity acts quickly, without hesitation. She gives the injection to constrict blood vessels and open your airways. "Antihistamines and an oxygen mask."

You cough a few times when you can finally breathe again. A nurse brings an IV, and Trinity squeezes your hand as she places the catheter. You didn't even realise how fast it all had happened. You'd been sitting in a café, everything was fine, and then suddenly you felt it becoming harder to breathe. You called an ambulance anyway, even though you'd taken an antihistamine from the first-aid kit the waiter brought you, because you weren't getting any better. And now here you are. At first, you couldn't believe your eyes when you saw Trinity.

After all, the brain remembers the best things before death, right?

You slowly open your eyes and lie there, watching what's happening in the hallway. Trinity walks past, glances in at you, and steps into the room when she sees you're awake.

"I'd have preferred we meet again under more pleasant circumstances." She sits down on a chair beside you. "How are you? What's happened?"

"Much better now. I was betrayed by curry." You let out a quiet laugh.

"In that case, I'll have to treat you to dinner when you're discharged." Trinity looks at you, waiting for a response to her invitation.

"You saved my life. I think I'm the one who should be thanking you." You parry.

"Then you'll have to go on two dates with me. What do you think about that?" Trinity grins contentedly.

"Perfect." You squeeze her hand and smile back. "I'd kiss you, but I still can't feel my lips."

Gator has been sitting on a chair in the bathroom for several minutes now, unable to pull himself together to change his bandage.

He lost half of his world, and now it seems even flatter and duller. The remaining eye is like a mud-stained window in a prison cell, through which he can only see grayness and despondency. Every time he looks in the mirror, an ugly reminder of his failure stares back at him. There, beyond the silver surface, lives a stranger, a crooked freak whose single eye gleams with furious hatred. Gator hates his reflection. Hates this gaping void under the bandages, because it stares at him more intently than any healthy pupil, sucking out the last remnants of his self-respect.

Yes, he could ask you for help, but all he can manage is to snap at you. The words fly out of him like barbed wire, wrapping around you in a coil. Asking you for help would mean admitting that his maimed hands aren't even enough for a bandage. Gator was always clumsy, even without the cast on his arm and everything else... His head spins and aches because his brain still hasn't adjusted to the loss of one eye. On the very first day you picked him up from the hospital, he walked straight into a doorframe and split his eyebrow open, bleeding. That was the first and last time he let you help him, cleaning the cut and covering it with an adhesive plaster. He didn't like that feeling. Because calling you means plugging the last crack through which his pride still seeps. He'd rather let the wound fester, let the infection spread and devour him alive, than grovel to begging. After all, the decay inside has already begun, and now he spews venomous words, that he knows full well, hurt you, and you silently walk away, with your eyes downcast.

Gator stands up, a little unsteady, and braces himself against the sink. He's used to everything around him letting him down, and now he has to get used to his own body doing it. With one angry motion, he rips the bandage off his eye, leaving red sticky traces of plaster on his brow and temple. He opens the antiseptic bottle and soaks a cotton pad with it.

Looking in the mirror is unbearable. Instead of an eye, there's a hole, a pit, a hollow, a crater, surrounded by uneven flaps of skin crusted over. A second mouth, screaming silently. Gator runs the pad along the edge of the wound, with slow, perverse cruelty, as if teaching himself another lesson in pain. When the pad turns brownish-red with blood, he tosses it into the sink. Then he takes gauze, squeezes out some ointment, and presses it to his eye – or rather, to the place where it used to be – to fix it with a plaster. His fingers tremble, and the stiffness from the cast only makes it worse. The plaster sticks to his brow, the gauze slides sideways, exposing the rough edges. It all bunches up in folds. Gator crumples the bandage again. The scab on the wound cracks, and a drop of blood runs down near his nostril, like a crimson tear.

He leans closer to the mirror, and it fogs up from his breath. Gator is too absorbed and lost in himself to hear you enter the bathroom to pick up the laundry. He can't see you because his peripheral vision has become significantly worse. He only realizes you're standing behind him when he hears your short breath.

Gator flinches, turning his head, and in the mirror his gaze meets yours. He sees your eyes widen as they involuntarily drift across his face and settle on the place where the void gapes. He sees your brows draw together and a crease form between them – the precursor to sympathy. And Gator almost reads the entire palette of emotions on your face: from curiosity to shock. He never let you see him without the bandage, made you wait in the hallway, didn't let you enter the treatment room with him at hospital, and at home he hided in the bathroom to keep you from interfering.

His legs bend, and you step forward to catch him, but he braces himself against the shelf and waves you off, and you retreat toward the door. His whole body shakes with a nasty tremor. Gator covers his eye socket with his palm, and with his other hand grabs the cap from the antiseptic bottle and throws it – not at you, but close enough for you to understand the seriousness of his command. The cap bounces off the floor and lands at your feet.

"I told you to leave! Get out! Go!" Gator slams the door in your face, nearly catching his own fingers.

The click of the latch sounds like a gunshot.

He's never really angry at you, at least, not genuinely. Sometimes he pretends to grumble if something bothers him or if you're not paying him enough attention. He hates begging. But if something is given to him – he takes it. And right now, he's only angry at himself, at the fact that you saw him like this. He's useless. He can't drive you around town anymore because navigating space is too hard, let alone getting behind the wheel. He can't go to a restaurant with you, can't even step into a café, because all eyes would immediately turn to him like he's some bizarre curiosity. Rumors spread incredibly fast. He's not even a handsome accessory to show off to your friends anymore. Gator knew he was good-looking, enjoyed the attention from women. But more importantly, he knew you liked him, even though he pretended to hate it when you called him "my pretty boy" or something like that.

He's good for nothing.

Gator sits on the floor, his back against the door. He covers his head with his hands. The weight of the cast presses down, as does the silence after he heard your hurried footsteps in the hallway. He pushes you away again. Gator rubs his face, pressing on his eye socket. He deserves the pain, only pain and nothing else. Everything is ruined, and he wants to make it even worse, so that nothing can be fixed. Tear out his other eye, break his other arm, maybe even his legs.

His life is broken.

He is broken.

Gator stands up, tries to reapply the plaster, no longer even trying, just somehow. When he's done, he steps into the hallway, where semi-darkness greets him. You didn't turn on the bright lights, only the dim lamps that don't sting his eyes. Everything feels draped in a mourning veil, because something in him truly died.

Gator walks quietly to the bedroom. You're not here, but you've thoughtfully drawn the curtains so the morning sun won't shine in his eye. Now the curtains in your home are almost always drawn. He lies down on the bed, pulling the blanket up to his chin, hiding from everything around him.

A few minutes later, he hears you enter, stopping at the threshold. He's turned away, and you can't see if Gator is asleep. You take a few steps toward him, and he deliberately shifts to let you know he's awake. You lower yourself onto the bed, but he says nothing, and you take that as permission to lie down beside him. He knows that if he gives no sign, you'll go sleep on the uncomfortable couch. You shouldn't suffer because of him.

"Goodnight." You whisper, with the wrong intonation, because you wanted to add something you usually use to smooth over his bad moods: "sweetheart," "darling," "dear." And he almost feels your hand hovering over his side, ready to stroke him. But you say nothing, do nothing. You just lie down on the very edge and turn off the lamp.

The room plunges into darkness, and Gator falls asleep almost immediately.

But he doesn't know when sleep stopped being sleep.

At first, there was darkness, thick and dense. He walks through a space where there is nothing – a pristine, primal void, where the only sound is the hollow echo of his footsteps.

Gator walks forward until he notices a person. He's sitting, hunched over, hands resting on his knees. He doesn't move at all. Gator steps closer, cautiously reaches out, and shakes him by the shoulder. The instant Gator touches him, the man lifts his head.

And he has no face.

Where it should be, there's just a white, empty oval with blurred outlines, like an unfinished sculpture with just hints of facial features.

Gator doesn't immediately realize who it is, but he recognizes him. The build, the shoulders, the shape of the face.

It's himself. What's left of him.

Gator recoils in horror, falls onto his back, and wakes up.

But the darkness still lingers before his eyes.

Gator tries to focus his gaze, to make out anything: an object, a silhouette, a shade, a glimmer of light. But nothing changes. Only emptiness.

Did he go completely blind?

He tries to open his eye, but his eyelid won't obey, not a single muscle in his body works, and he can't move. Gator tries to shake his head, force his eye open, but nothing happens.

He doesn't feel that his body belongs to him – he's become a prisoner inside it. He can't see anything. Can't hear anything. Can't do anything. And it's so strange, to be trapped inside yourself, not in a skull, but somewhere deeper, in the subconscious.

It's all over.

He's lost everything.

And with that thought comes relief. He no longer has to do anything, no longer has to pretend or act as if anything can still be fixed. Everything is finally broken.

Maybe God heard him. Heard that he didn't want to look at himself. Now he won't see at all. Not you in the morning, bathed in sunlight, not your face, not your smile. And he doesn't need to see anything else in this life. Only you. And now he's going to poke around the corners like an old, blind dog that needs to be taken out into a field, tied to a post, and left there to die, because he doesn't deserve anything else. If he were you, he'd do the same thing to get rid of him.

He's no longer human – a monster, that faceless creature mimicking the most depraved human manners, lying in the dark, waiting for his body to decide it's time to stop.

And yet, somehow, he keeps trying. Gator almost catches that thread, which slips away again and again the moment he clenches his fist.

And at some point, Gator doesn't understand how it happens, his eyelid twitches, as if someone yanks him painfully back to life when he already had one foot in the grave.

Gator opens his eye.

The room is no longer pitch black, just dark, with a faint light from the streetlamp reflecting off the shiny surfaces.

He doesn't have the strength to get up. He turns his head and sees you. You're asleep, lying on the very edge, as if afraid to disturb him with your presence, afraid to take up too much space. He tries to reach you and shoves his heavy arm in the cast into your shoulder, and you flinch.

You immediately understand it wasn't an accident – he called you – and you turn to him. Sleep goes away without leaving a trace.

"Gator?" Your voice sounds anxious. You take a pillow and tuck it under his head because he's been tossing. "What has happened? A nightmare?" You touch his chest, but don't embrace him, so as not to overwhelm him.

"I thought... I couldn't see anything." He hears his heart pounding wildly under your hand.

"Look at me, can you see me?" You touch his cheek and turn his head toward you.

"Yes. Yes, I see you." His throat tightens, and he can't hold back anymore. Gator loses his composure, his lips trembling, tears streaming from his eye. He'd clenched his teeth, clenched his fists, never let himself spill out all the pain building inside. "I thought I'd never see you again. I don't know what it was. I couldn't move, couldn't... I was scared." The last words sounded like a foreign language, so unfamiliar to him. He'd never admitted to himself, let alone anyone else, his fears.

"Oh, Gator. Come here." He reaches for you, and you hug him under his arms. His body helplessly softens in your arms. "It must have been sleep paralysis. It happens. I'm here with you." He clings to you, afraid you'll vanish and this will be just another dream.

"I've never been so scared. Even when I lost my eye. I'm trying... trying to handle things on my own, to do even the simplest things without your guidance and supervision, but... Everything is so difficult now." He wants to say everything he's kept silent, so you understand why he hurt you so much, that it wasn't intentional.

"Gator, I told you I'd help anytime. You can call me, remember?" You stroke his head. And that touch, filled with tenderness, makes him cry even harder. He yelled at you, drove you away, got angry, threw things at you. This can't go on if you decide to stay. He can't keep letting you endure his outbursts just because you pity him.

"And then what? When your leave is over and you have to go back to work? Because I can do nothing now, and you know it perfectly well." Gator wants to let go of you, but his hands won't obey, and he grips the edge of your T-shirt tighter, crumpling it. "You deserve someone you don't have to fuss over, someone who can leave a room without crashing into a doorframe and pour their own tea without spilling it."

"Stop it, stop it, don't say that!" You're crying now. You understand Gator is trying to protect you from himself, but it's backfiring, and he's cutting to the bone. You can't bear to hear him devalue himself.

"No, don't cry over me. I'm not worth it." He wants to wipe your tears, and they drip onto his cast. "I don't know what to do. I'm afraid of losing you. But I'm even more afraid that if you leave, then I'll have nothing left."

"You think I'm only with you because I pity you?" You look him straight in the eye, then bury your face in his shoulder. Gator strokes your back, and finally he can hug you properly, freed from the paralyzing fear.

"Honestly, at first I did think that..." Right now, he wants everything to be honest. He's ready to turn himself inside out. Gator knew few people stayed. Some of them – only for a while. Then they leave, abandon you, when they think enough time has passed so it doesn't look like one of you is guilty.

"I'm crying because it hurts to see the person I love suffering and going through all this alone. It doesn't hurt because of what you say or do. It hurts because of how you treat yourself."

"I thought if I pretended I didn't care, you wouldn't see how scared I was. If I pushed you away, you wouldn't realize something was wrong with me." Gator sniffled, the bandage slides off his eye. "I can never be again the person you fell in love with..."

"Gator, you can't go back to being your old self, but you can keep fighting. You always get back up. Even when you fall. That's the strongest thing I've ever seen. You act like you're immune to pain, but I know you endure it. And you won't make things worse for me if you tell me what's going on inside you." You run your hand along his cheek, where the tape has peeled a little, and kiss him just below his eye. "I love you."

"I love you too. I'm sorry about today. And for everything before, for how I treated you." You hug him tighter, and he kisses your forehead several times. He missed your touch, because he'd kept you at arm's length all this time.

"We'll both try, and it'll work out. We'll talk if something's wrong, even if it isn't easy. We won't take offense and stay silent if one of us doesn't like something. We'll get through everything together, okay?" Gator nods at your words. "Let's change your bandage." You wipe away your tears and give a weak smile. He tries to smile back.

"Yes, okay." He wants to get out of bed, but you stop him.

"I'll get everything, stay here." You pat his shoulder, and he stays sitting in bed. He thinks about your reaction in the bathroom, about you having to see that void again and be horrified. You'll see him again. See him like this. Ugly, broken, half-empty.

He hears you return. Your steps are light but steady. You come into the room, carrying the antiseptic bottle, gauze, ointment, and scissors. You sit beside him on the bed, tap your fingertips on his knee to get his attention, and smile. Gator sits across from you and leans forward slightly so you can reach.

"May I?" You ask, touching his face to remove the bandage.

"Yes."

"Good. There we go." You peel off the tape much more gently than he did. "Oh, Gator, there's a little blood here. What has happened?"

Gator purses his lips. He doesn't want to lie to you or look more pathetic. "I wasn't very careful today."

"It's okay. It's fixable." You assure him. You dab at the eye socket, noticing how Gator tenses, nails dig into his palms. "Does it hurt?"

Gator quickly shakes his head. It's not the antiseptic that hurts – it's how much you do for him. "I'm sorry you have to fuss over me."

You smile at him, cupping his face in your hands. It makes his heart clench. "Never apologize for something that lets me be closer to you." You lean in and kiss him around his eye, on the bridge of his nose, his temple. He rubs his nose against your cheek, unsure if you'll want to kiss him on the lips. But you do. You press your lips to his. And Gator freezes. He hasn't kissed you since the day he came home from the hospital, wouldn't allow himself to. And now, finally, your lips touch his softly, almost weightlessly. He doesn't try to press harder or deepen the kiss. He just enjoys feeling the warmth of your breath, your fingers still resting on his cheeks.

Chapter 2. Ceasefire.

Summer passed the way the most important things always do: impossibly slow when you're inside them, and dizzyingly fast when you look back.

It turned out that everything is twice as good when you do it with someone, and with your appearance in Gator's life, the world gained a few more colors.

He showed you where the blackberry bushes grew in the shaded lowlands. Gator left you waiting nearby while he crawled deep into the thicket, reaching for the ripest berries. You helped him pick the thorns out of his scratched hands, and then you ate the berries together, and the juice stained your palms and lips purple.

You brought him a slice of fresh apple pie, still warm, and sometimes you even invited him home, but he preferred sitting on the porch, hiding behind the sheer curtains where lost moths crawled along the fabric.

And then summer crumbled beneath your feet into golden leaves.

To be completely honest, Gator was actually glad to go to school, though the worry about his mother never really went away. But Roy was at work during those hours, which meant nothing could happen while Gator was not at home. Roy drove him to school, and Linda picked him up. And if during the ride with Roy he just nodded silently at his lectures, with Linda he chattered brightly about how his day had gone.

At school he wasn't very sociable, but you faithfully followed him everywhere, even when he hadn't asked for company. You sat with him in art class, and during breaks you two were sitting under a tree or walked holding hand. At lunch you always sat together, and you'd often share something tasty with him – things his father skimped on, spoiling Gator only on special occasions. But it was more like throwing a bone to a dog for good service.

Then winter holidays began.

It means chaos everywhere, more of Roy's shouting if something, in his opinion, goes wrong, maybe a trip to Gator's grandfather, who isn't much different from any other man in the Tillman bloodline. Gator wants to believe he is different. Not just in name. But on the other hand, Christmas means gingerbread, spiced cocoa, and the scent of pine in the house.

What a pity that they feel like a family only on holidays. The rest of the time it's just a poor parody.

Gator is getting ready for a walk; he's seen you through the window, playing in the snow. He pulls on wool socks and boots, his hat slipping over his eyes as Linda adjusts his scarf.

"Not for too long. When your father comes back, you need to be home." She watches as Gator puts on his mittens. "Don't lose them, alright?"

"This time I won't take them off!" Gator shouts and runs outside.

You're standing there, your tongue slightly out, trying to catch falling snowflakes. He likes you. This realization grew all summer long, like dandelions through cracks in the asphalt. You're funny, and with you everything becomes a hundred times easier. He doesn't know yet that only with you he will feel real. You are the reason for that feeling he doesn't know how to name. It's something that isn't in any book he's read, or in any conversation he's eavesdropped on while hiding behind the living room door.

And giving it a name would mean beginning to possess it, to tame it so it would nuzzle under his hand, wanting to be stroked. Then the feeling would stop being wild, thorny, untamed. Its freedom would be replaced by understanding and acceptance. And Gator doesn't know if he wants that feeling to become understandable, because if it becomes understandable, it will be just a word you can say and forget, like forgetting a poem that once touched your heart, but now the book of these sonnets gathers dust on the shelf.

As it is, it doesn't fit into bland words – it's too big to be childish, and too honest to be naive. Gator is afraid that if he embraces it, even imagines it for a second, it will supplant everything else that is in him. So Gator prefers to think of its existence somewhere outside his world, where everything is familiar, dull, predictable, like a school schedule memorized by heart by mid-September. And still, children don't know words to express something so complex in a few sentences. Not to mention, even most adults have problems with it.

But Gator tries to show you his affection, how much he appreciates you. He picks the most beautiful rose from the garden, brings a cookie he's hidden in his sweater sleeve, and you don't care at all that a woolen hair is stuck to it. He slides his intact wax crayons over to you when yours break, and gives you his jelly at lunch.

The snow creaks underfoot like broken glass. Gator, unfortunately, can't come up with a better comparison. He scoops some snow into his palms, making a snowball to throw at you. You spend too much time with your head in the clouds, but he doesn't get upset when he has to get your attention. You have a bright head and clear thoughts. Impossible ones. Gator's dreams are probably impossible too, though completely real. He wishes Roy wasn't so strict and angry, did not hurt his mother, did not to hurt him, in the end.

A snowball hits you, scattering into white dust across your coat. "Hey, who attacks without declaring war?" You exhale a cloud of steam that immediately dissolves in the air. Gator prepares for his next attack and bends down to make another snowball. But you're quick – he barely has time to straighten up before you jump on him, and you both fall into a snowdrift.

"You don't like losing too much." Gator turns his head to look at you. Your cheeks are pink from the biting frost, and a strand of hair has escaped from under your hat. Your laugh sounds like icicles falling from a roof. Clear and loud. Gator smiles too. That same smile he hides from everyone, and he doesn't understand why only you know how to bring it out.

"Here, take these, as a truce." You pull off your glove and reach into your pocket. Gator sits up and extends his hand. You put several colorful candies in his palm.

"Thank you. I don't have anything for you..." Gator somehow got used to the idea that if you do something for someone, you always have the right to ask for repaying the debt in return. That's why his father always tells him not to do anything for nothing.

"So what? You don't need to." You stand up and offer him your hand to help him to stand up. He sits there, bewildered. "I don't do it so you'll give me something. I do it because... I don't know. To make you happy. Like the pastor said about selflessness? I'll get my reward anyway for being kind." You brushed the snow off him, and Gator wiped the wet clumps from your back.

"I need to be home when my father gets back for dinner." Gator warns in advance, so you won't be too upset when there's little time left.

"Then let's go quickly. I want to show you something." You walk out the gate.

"Where?" Gator walks through the snow, sinking from time to time, though he tries to step in your footprints.

"You'll see." You slip through a hole in the fence and head toward the barn. "Come in. Be quiet." You close the door behind you and walk over to the cages where the rabbits live. Inside it's warm, smelling of fur and hay. You approach the biggest cage and gesture for Gator to come closer. He steps up and peers inside.

"Oh, they're..." Gator looks at the tiny baby rabbits squirming next to the big doe-rabbit. "Vulnerable."

"They're not even a month old yet. But you can already hold them." You open the cage and pick up a rabbit that wiggles its paws, then you bring it over to Gator. He cups his hands like in prayer, and you place the rabbit in his palms. It's snow-white, tiny, with neat little ears and a heart beating very-very fast.

"So soft." Gator strokes it, and the rabbit sniffs his hands.

You look at them. "It looks like you."

"Why?"

"Funny. Your nose twitches the same way." You flick Gator's nose.

"Definitely not." He presses the rabbit to his chest with one hand and wipes his nose with his mitten.

"Like right now, when you're pouting." You smile and nudge his shoulder. "Actually, you could take one home later. This one seems to like you."

Gator frowns. He'd like to, but his father would say he turned the house into a zoo. Animals don't belong there. Besides, Roy considers animals worth having only if they're useful as horses, chickens, or hounds. But a rabbit... Roy would wait a couple of months for it to grow up, and then serve it for dinner. Gator can almost smell the roasted meat, like the hares his father hunts, served with mashed potatoes.

"I can't. Father would be against it." He gives the rabbit back to you and shoves his hands in his pockets.

"Then you can come here. If you want." You stroke the mother rabbit, who doesn't even move, only slowly closes her red eyes, and then you close the cage.

"Really?" Gator still can't get used to your openness and kindness. Everything good in his life was either mockery or pretense. And unfortunately, this feeling will stay with him his whole life. This distrust of the world's simplicity and of people, this constant doubt, because if someone reaches out to you, it's only to hit. You're the first one who handed him a candy.

You nod in reply, and you both step out of the barn. The snowfall has intensified, and the flakes have grown large, made of several snowflakes stuck together. It's better to go home, because the trees in the distance are already impossible to make out, and the world is slowly shrinking to five meters around Gator.

"I'll walk you part of the way." You grab the edge of his coat and don't let go until he stops. You don't ask why Gator always goes quiet when you approach his house, but you understand something instinctively. And he needs these few minutes to remember that he's a Tillman, not just Gator. "See you tomorrow!" You wave goodbye.

"But tomorrow's Sunday," Gator reminds you, because their family go to church that day, and Roy insists they spend time together, as a family should.

"And? We always see each other anyway." You shrug and turn toward your house.

This is starting to become a habit – one he'll find very hard to break.